Hide and Seek
by privatephilosopher
Summary: AU. Brittany survived a fire. Santana knows who set it.
1. Burn, Baby, Burn

**Hide and Seek**

**Burn, baby, burn.**

_"Like fire! Hell fire!"_

_Hellfire, The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

The sound of the first scream rose above the crackling of the burning house like a crescendo bursting forth in the climax of a requiem, or the booming of a gunshot in the middle of a dark, silent night.

It reverberated endlessly, sinking through the surface of her skin and chilling the marrow of her bones. It tainted her blood, pushing rapidly throughout her entire body, giving Santana the maddening sensation of the scream being everywhere all at once.

The second scream felt like a punch to her chest, expelling the air out of her lungs like helium squeezing painfully through a tiny hole on a balloon. Out of breath and rapidly approaching a dizziness, Santana felt her knees buckle under her weight.

The third scream seemed impossibly louder, tinged with an undeniable urgency and distinct desperation. It blocked all other signals from entering Santana's brain until all she could register was screaming, screaming, screaming.

It was overwhelming, and horrifying, and it unlocked the dark room in Santana's mind that she swore never to visit again.

Santana didn't even notice when her companions begin to yell for them to clear out. The present image of the burning house a few meters away was replaced by a past, preserved one, of a man standing over a woman with his fists flying frantically in the air. The stench of burning wood was lost to Santana as she remembered the metallic tang of blood fogging up her nose trills.

Both memories were different in so many ways. Time. Place. Circumstance. Villain. Victim. But in Santana's mind, the one thing that made them so alike, the one thread that tied them both together, was the sound of that screaming.


	2. Scorching Red and Burning Blue

**Scorching Red and Burning Blue**

_"We are all embers from the same fire."  
>Embers, Just Jack<em>

_Fire_, Santana thought, _is fucking terrifying._

Squinting when the smoke was beginning to sear her eyes, Santana watched in horror as the fire angrily lick a path up the wooden panels, furiously devouring every single inch. There was nothing that could stop it, it seemed: it swept over everything with a bloodthirsty vengeance.

Unrelenting, unmerciful. Santana knew quite intimately what it meant to be afraid, but the terror she felt watching the fire was different.

She swore her brain leapt out of her skull when the windows on the second floor burst sharply, shards of broken glass flying in every direction, smoke puffing out hotly in black pillars into the night sky. Coughing, she clapped a hand over her nose and mouth to prevent the smoke from entering her lungs. Already it was way too hot.

_Shit._

She didn't need to look around to confirm that all the others had gone – she had already known, somehow, that her companions belonged to that breed of people who would flee the scene at the first sign of trouble, without bothering to cast a backward glance.

She couldn't, though. Not with all that awful, hair-raising, blood-curling screaming.

Glaring up at the heat, Santana felt herself sweating madly, her heart pounding fearfully in her chest. It wasn't like she had any plan. She had no phone, so calling 911 wasn't an option. To make it worse, this house was built on what must have been the most isolated part of town: there were no other buildings for miles around, so yelling for help was pretty stupid.

There was nothing logical for her to do here but bail as well, and pray for the poor unfortunate souls trapped in the fiery fires of their own personal hell.

But Santana wasn't always logical, and she didn't believe in praying. Besides, she'd already lived through doing nothing once when someone was screaming like that. She didn't think she could live through doing nothing all over again.

Her hands found their way to edges of her jacket, and she shook it off her body rapidly. _No point trying to stay warm in the heart of hell,_ she figured. She grabbed a sleeve and ripped it off as forcefully as she could, wrapping it around the lower half of her face in an attempt at a makeshift mask.

_Stop_, an angry voice exploded in her head when she turned to face the growing flames. _You're being stupid and suicidal._

_Yeah, well._ Another part of her retorted wryly, and she did a mental eye-roll. _Whatever._ She closed her eyes briefly and began a silent countdown in her mind.

**Five.** Her eyes open and squinted at the front door, her body bending instinctually as she prepared to burst into a run. **Four.** The screaming had stopped. She didn't want to figure out whether that was a good or bad thing. **Three.** Taking a large gulp of the smoke-tainted air, she tried to calm the running-stag clamor of her heart. _What the hell am I doing? _**Two.** For a split second, the thought of closing her eyes while running in crossed her mind. On the last minute, however, she decided not to. If death was coming tonight, she wanted to meet it face to face. "I must be crazy." She blurted out loud, panic seeping into her voice. "I must be fucking crazy." Famous last words. **One.**

She ran straight into the heat and rammed herself straight through the door, instantly engulfed in bright, flickering orange and red. It was everywhere she looked: crawling on the ceiling, dancing on the walls. The temperature was overwhelming, and for a split second Santana wondered if this was how it felt to be trapped in an oven. Ashes floated around her like black, drifting snow, and debris was falling everywhere. Smoke rushed at her like dogs defending territory, and she began to cough with the severe lack of oxygen.

_Where?_ Her mind asked frantically while she looked around her, blinking away the liquid in her eyes. She could feel the sweat dripping down her face, her arms, her back. _Where the hell are you?_

In eerie response she heard another scream ring through the house, and her head shot up towards ceiling above her. _Stairs. _She told herself, trying to ignore the way her skin felt like it was beginning to melt over her bones._ I need to find the stairs._

The fire gave a particularly menacing roar towards her right, and Santana's head swiveled to look towards that direction. _Bingo._ The structure was clearly precariously close to giving in, but Santana tried not to think about that when she raced up each step, leaping over each burst of hot flame beneath her feet. _Please be somewhere close._

There was a door immediately to her left when she reached the threshold of the second floor – she saw gaps in the ground where the fire had eaten through the material unapologetically – and she kicked it open with as much force as she could muster.

The first thing that crossed her mind was that she was peering into what appeared to be a bathroom of some sort, filled with thick smoke that made it impossible to see past a few feet.

"Hello?" Santana coughed out desperately, clutching the thin cloth to her mouth. "Is anybody there?"

The sound of the fire cracking was loud in the air, and so was the pounding of Santana's heart in her chest. A grand crash downstairs made Santana wince, the fear in her gut growing exponentially. Despite all the noise, however, Santana still managed to hear it. Like her ears had been preparing their whole lives to hear that one sound in that one moment.

A whimper.

Santana felt her heart leap to her mouth like dog ears twitching at the softest of sounds.

"Hello?" She repeated louder, daring to walk into the confined space, feeling her way through the dense dark cloud. "Please, is anybody there?"

There was another whimper, louder this time. Santana waited with bated breath, then, ever so desperately softly, like the rusting of leaves on an autumn day, – "Here."

Santana felt her knees give in beneath her, her head pounding in agonized dizziness. _No_, she growled in her mind, _you are not going to fucking die today._ She crawled her way on all fours to the source of that one relief-inducing syllable, muttering over and over, "I'm coming…I'm coming…I'm coming…"

Her hands touched something soft, and real, and she felt the warmth of human life beneath her fingertips. She grasped at it tightly and pulled with as much strength as she could gather in her body, but she hardly managed to make her discovery budge an inch. Groaning, Santana moved closer, the edges of her vision sliding in and out of focus.

Through the hazy smoke searing her eyes, Santana suddenly found herself peering into a pair of curiously relieved and frightened, beautiful and shattered blue eyes. Blue eyes staring at her with unmasked fear, tear tracks clearly glinting on her cheeks, soot all over what Santana imagined must be pale, creamy skin and golden blonde hair. Blinking to clear her vision, Santana felt relief and urgency swoop over her demandingly.

"Come on," she began hoarsely, reaching to tug at the girl's sweat-soaked tank top – except she couldn't. She realized then that the girl wasn't alone. Tucked protectively in her arms was a smaller body, a smaller girl. Santana estimated an age roughly between six to eight.

"Save her." The other blonde, the older one, choked out. She pushed the other body into Santana's arms, giving her no opportunity to object. Santana felt with painful clarity exactly how cold the little body was. "Please." The girl pleaded, her voice weak and pained.

The cold shell of Santana's heart cracked just a little at that, the realization of the full weight of the strange girl's request felling on her shoulder: _leave me, save her. Please._

Santana's black eyes flickered to the girl's blue, and for a moment she wished she was more expressive, so she could communicate without words how noble she thought the girl was being.

And how sorry she was that all this was happening.

"Please," the blonde girl repeated, her voice growing smaller as she began to cough, her eyes flickering closed as the smoke thickened around them, until Santana could no longer see the other girl. "_please…_"

Santana felt a mixture of so many things: sadness, pity, regret, anger. But she didn't need to be pleaded with any more than necessary. With renewed strength and purpose, she clutched the tiny body close to her chest and made her way out of the room, holding the young girl safely to her as she ran back down the stairs that were moments away from collapse, through the living room of unbearable heat, and out into the night.

After pulling off the mask and gasping for breath, she laid the little girl down on the cool earth, her fingers fumbling to grasp a tiny wrist. _Pulse_, she thought frantically while taking large amounts of air through her mouth. _Please for the love of God let there be a fucking pulse._

Her fingers closed over the crevice of the dainty wrist. For a moment she felt nothing. Then she adjusted her fingers, trying not to choke, and – _there_.

Santana felt herself cry out in sheer relief and exhaustion. But her eyes turned back to the house, the image of that powerful blue flooding back into her vision momentarily, and she felt herself moving back towards it before she could think clearly.

Fixing the fabric back on her face, she took another deep breath and threw herself back into the house, skipping steps as she dashed up the stairs, barely noticing when traces of the flame left angry, red imprints on her skin. Already the second floor was being enveloped in scorching orange heat, and her nose was beginning to hurt as though someone had plunged two identical knives into her nostrils.

She let the rough sound of coughing be her guide through the smoke and flames, until she was back on all-fours in front of the blonde, blue-eyed enigma. "Come on," she coaxed, pulling at the other girl. "Come on."

The girl, coughing like there was no tomorrow, looked at Santana blearily, as though there was a thin film obscuring her view. "My sister." She says throatily, trying to blink herself into alertness, panic infusing with her exhaustion. "My sis–"

"She's fine." Santana interrupted, taking the blonde in her arms and easing her to her knees. She didn't know why on earth she was bothering to be nice to her. Her only self-assigned task in this horrible mess was to save her life, after all. Not to make friends. "Listen. We need to go. Now."

The blonde nodded, and wrapped both her arms around Santana, who prayed her body had enough strength to deliver this girl from the arms of hell to the arms of safety.

She hoisted the warm body into herself, the girl's face fitting easily into the crook of Santana's neck. Santana felt the rapid pants of hot air the girl was releasing straight into her flesh, as well as the violent shudders her body went through with each brutal cough.

"It's okay," Santana found herself murmuring as she rose to her feet, "It's going to be okay."

The girl was much, much heavier than Santana anticipated, and she had to move at a much slower pace in order not to drop her. The orange flames danced around her, becoming far too bright, and Santana almost couldn't see anything past the flames and the smoke.

She was about two steps into the stairs when there was a resounding crash, and she felt more than saw the rest of the steps down below cave in like balloons bursting to external pressure.

_Holy shit._

The girl whimpered.

_Where the hell is the fire department? How pathetic exactly is this stupid cow town?_

"We're going to be fine," Santana said automatically, her feet scrambling back up to much stable ground, backing into another room – a bedroom, she realized, the flames lapping the walls. How much longer did they have before the whole house collapsed? Her eyes darted around as she tried to assess and analyze past the irrational terror gripping her mind.

The girl moaned something in her arms, and Santana moved her head closer to hear her clearly. "Window." The girl was saying, trying to point. "Window." She repeated weakly. Santana glanced to the direction the girl was pointing, immediately spotting the location the girl was trying to indicate.

The glass had already been shattered through, save a few sharp points sticking dangerously out from the bottom. Moving as quickly as she could towards their last option, Santana gently set the girl down on her feet before kicking off the rest of the glass and sticking her head out, trying to survey exactly how far down below the ground was.

_Worth the risk_, she decided.

Santana looked around the room, trying to find anything that could possible cushion their fall. But before she could get her hands on anything decent, the fire punched through the wall, and wooden splinters flew everywhere, like bullets spraying in random motion. Reaching to the side of the window, Santana wrenched free the pale yellow curtains that miraculously hadn't caught fire yet. They weren't much, but they'd have to do.

"Okay," she muttered to herself, approaching the other girl, "Here we go."

She pulled the girl towards her tightly, wrapping the curtain around the blonde more than herself. "Wait." The blonde blurted out as they approach the window. "Wait."

Santana looked at her, trying not to snap. "Look, Blondie, we really, really need to go."

The girl's eyes filled with tears, some already rushing down her cheeks. "My mom." The girl whispered in anguished tones. "My-my mom." A sob rose to her throat, clawing out of her body.

Santana felt a hot roar in her chest. For a moment she wondered if she was combustible, because being this close to the flames made her feel near bursting. For the second time that night everything faded around her, to be replaced by another image, another memory, another kind of pain and torture.

Santana blinked, looking back at the other girl. She knew exactly how she felt.

In a flash, she suddenly remembered with sharp regret that all this involved, her, too. She wasn't entirely innocent in this whole event. She bit her tongue. One way or another, she had blood in her hands. Again.

Santana felt her heart steel itself against emotion, and she grabbed the girl's arm to anchor her in the present. Blue eyes shot to hers, burning with a different kind of flame, a dark intensity, one that almost robbed Santana of her breath.

"Your sister is still out there." Santana said in a tone intentionally harsh, muffled only slightly by the fabric over her mouth. "She's still out there, Blondie. And she needs you."

The girl blinked slowly, and clarity seemed to turn her eyes into liquid blue. In contrast to the fiery red all around them, Santana found the crystal blue in the other girl's eyes oddly alluring.

"Okay." The girl whispered, swallowing. She nodded once, wrapping her arms around Santana and squeezing her eyes shut. "Okay."

Santana snaked her arms around the other girl, willing her heart to stay calm. She squinted against the ash and dust, looking one last time at the flames surrounding them, at the ruin in the making. It had all turned into a hell so, so fast.

She blinked once, tightening her hold on the other girl.

Then she leapt out the room through the window, throwing them both out of the red hotness and launching them into the cool blue night sky.


	3. Losing Yellow

**Losing Yellow**

_The Firebird Suite, Igor Stravinsky_

When Brittany was a child she used to wonder what colors tasted like.

It was a few days after her ninth birthday when she finally decided to find out for herself. When her mother left the house to run a few errands, Brittany drifted from one room to another, grouping objects together by particular colors, before licking and biting each one in turn. But no matter how many things she bit or licked, nothing seemed to taste the same.

When her mother returned with the grocery in her arms, she was met with the sight of almost everything in the house sorted into their dominant colors, and a solemn-looking daughter staring up at her.

"Mommy," Brittany whispered, tugging at her arm, "Do colors have tastes? Or is there something missing in my tongue that makes me not taste them?"

Mrs. Pierce bit back an unholy shriek of laughter, before setting the paper bags down and lifting her daughter up into her arms. "Oh, honey." She kissed a flushed, round cheek once. "You know something? Maybe it would be better if you stopped trying to taste colors and tried to feel them instead."

Brittany looked at her mother, feeling puzzled. _How could you feel colors but not taste them?_ She was about to ask confusedly. But the warm blue of her mother's eyes seemed to smile at her lovingly, and suddenly the taste of colors didn't really seem to matter anymore, because her mother was right. Feeling colors was so much better.

And blue was totally the color of home.

When Brittany was twelve she decided that yellow was the color of happiness. It was the color of the little duck balloons of her birthday party, the first birthday that her Daddy attended in almost two years. It was the color of her Daddy's hair when it grew back out, after being cut all the time in the Army. And it was also the color of her little sister's hair when she was born almost a year later, though Brittany wasn't allowed to see that part. But it was okay. Yellow was a happy color and twelve was a happy year.

She was thirteen and a half when green became a sad color. She used to love green because green felt warm, and rich and earthy, but green began to feel sad when they brought her Daddy back from that place far away. Everyone went to the funeral wearing black but to Brittany the saddest part was the big picture of her Daddy wearing his green Army uniform.

Brittany was fifteen when she decided that white was a sad color, too. She and her mother alternated shifts when her Grandma had to be put in the hospital. Everything looked so white, like the long white strands of her Grandma's hair that she liked to comb to make her Grandma feel better. She remembered the white coats the doctors were wearing when they pulled her out of the tiny hospital room when her Grandma stopped breathing. She felt surrounded in white, like it was creeping along her skin and biting into her bones.

She was seventeen when she connected the drab gray color of the concrete road with _leaving_ home. As she watched the home she had grown up in grow smaller and smaller behind them, she looked nothing but ashen and felt nothing but gray.

* * *

><p>Brittany knew she was having a dream, but she couldn't seem to wake up from it.<p>

Everything around her was bright yellow. The sun was high and hot in the sky, flooding yellow light down in golden streams around her. It was beautiful, and Brittany felt safe, somehow, as though she had just escaped from something so large and dreadful she couldn't even put it into words.

"Brittany!"

Brittany's head turned to the source of the call, her heart fluttering in her chest. "Daddy?"

Then she saw him emerge, through the yellow haze around her, dressed in cool blue. His smile felt like a weight lifted from her chest, a sadness evaporated into thin air. He held his arms out and she felt herself running straight into them.

"My little angel." He murmured into her hair, holding her close to him. His voice sounded like the shadows of an echo from so long ago. "It's so good to see you again."

"Daddy," she exhaled, trying not to cry. She began to breathe him in as much as she could, like she was a balloon and he was her helium. When she opened her eyes and looked to the distance, she saw two other figures waving at her, both clad in the same lovely blue. "Mom? Natalie?"

The figures began to move closer towards her, until her little sister's arms were wrapped tightly around her torso and both her hands were tightly interlocked with her mother's.

"We're so glad you're here, honey." Her mother smiled, lightly pressing a kiss to Brittany's right temple. "We're so glad you're here and we love you very much." She smiled again. Brittany tried to smile back, but there was a lump in her throat and there were tears in her mother's eyes.

Brittany blinked, and the image before her wavered ever so slightly, like ripples disrupting a reflection. "Where are we?"

Her father shook his head once and smoothened her hair, as though she were asking a dark, terrible secret he could not reveal. Her mother smiled and shook her head as well, kissing her again. Then, much to Brittany's surprise, they gently began to let her go. "Always remember that we love you."

With the sudden lack of physical contact, Brittany began to feel slightly dizzy. "Mom?" She asked fearfully, trying to reach for her mother. But her mother just retreated farther into the yellow, shaking her head.

"It isn't your time yet, honey."

Brittany felt terrified, all of a sudden, as the yellow seemed to suck in her entire family right before her eyes. "Wait!" She cried out, trying to break through the bright color to reach them. "Don't leave me!"

"Always remember that we love you." The words were whispered into the air, faint and almost inaudible. Brittany pushed desperately through the haze, trying to find them, but something kept holding her back.

Everything seemed to shift then, all of a sudden. The yellow around her seemed to swirl in mindless circles, darkening until they were closer to red-orange, almost like the sun was bleeding. The light began to shake, until the golden streams around her changed into something darker, something fiercer, surging around her. It began to dance around her in red-orange streaks, throwing shadows around and within her.

It was at that moment that Brittany felt that red and orange were the colors of fear and pain. And they were both so strong and primal, gripping her entire being in an iron-clad fist. She choked on them.

Then the colors began to scream at her, screaming incoherently, the sound hurting Brittany's ears and bouncing around her like never-ending echoes. She felt the screams around her, felt the screams go through her, shattering her into a million shards and breaking those shards into a million more tiny pieces.

It was overwhelming, and Brittany almost felt ready to lose herself in the sheer agony of it all. But before she could, everything abruptly fell silent. For a moment Brittany felt her entire body suspended in nothingness, before the colors began to shift so rapidly she couldn't keep up.

She closed her eyes, praying to wake up. When she opened them again, everything was swallowed in black, and Brittany felt herself being stripped of any kind of emotion, until all that was left was a strange feeling of calm, washing over her like waves lapping a shore.

Brittany closed her eyes again, and she felt herself begin to fall into the blackness. _It's going to be okay_, seemed to resonate from some half-remembered memory, then just as she began to fall faster, she felt herself jerk into being, snapping sharply into consciousness.

* * *

><p>Brittany inhaled deeply, trying to ground herself back into the reality of the present. The air around her smelled different, but somehow not unfamiliar: it was almost as though she could remember smelling this particular scent not so long ago, but she couldn't quite pinpoint what memory she'd already had of it.<p>

She began to become aware of other things: the stiffness of her body, the sound of a constant beeping somewhere near her, like an annoying alarm that wouldn't turn off. Sighing slightly, Brittany inhaled one more time before opening her eyes again.

The first thing she saw was pure, immaculate white of a foreign ceiling. She turned her head, confused, and saw a man standing by bedside, with a woman standing not that far behind him.

"Good morning, Ms. Pierce. How are you feeling today?"

Brittany stared at him for a moment, trying to decide whether she should scream or respond. Her eyes ran over him, taking in the white coat he was wearing.

"Where–" Her voice was unbelievably hoarse, and the woman moved towards her, a glass of water already in her hand.

"Here, drink this." She instructed. Brittany took the cup carefully and sniffed at it slightly, before taking a cautious sip. When nothing tasted amiss, she downed the rest of the water slowly.

"Where am I?" She tried again, her voice stronger this time. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the shut blinds and the sophisticated machinery that appeared to be attached to her body. With a growing sense of understanding, Brittany turned to look at the man before he answered,

"You're at the Lima General Hospital."


	4. Run, Run, As Fast As You Can

**Run, Run, As Fast As You Can.**

Her heart was beating itself desperately out of her body. Thud – let me out. Thud – let me out. Thud – let me out. Thud – _fuck_.

_I can't breathe,_ she thought wildly to herself, taking the front of her shirt – it smelled of smoke and sweat and fault – and twisting the fabric between her fingers, holding it tight enough to rip. _I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe_.

Her legs were screaming in agony beneath her weight, the muscles of her thighs protesting with every slap of her sneakers against the cold concrete beneath her. Every time she felt herself close to giving in, she only pushed herself harder, the memory of blonde hair whipping through her mind. _Don't fail me now,_ she commanded to herself when she tripped over a curb and fell hands-first into the waiting ground. _No,_ she growled defiantly to her body, the air rushing into her mouth and into her lungs like ocean waves crashing into a shore, blue eyes staring into hers._ Please, please._ _Don't fail me now._

It did.

Lying still, with her face pressed into the rough texture of the ground, she could still smell – she could still taste – the smoke on hear body, and no matter how much air she took in to try and flush it out, she couldn't rid herself of the nauseating odor. It clung to her like an unforgiving conscience.

For a moment she closed her eyes and tried to forget. But her mind was on overdrive, spewing out memories in random bursts until she was blind and choking on the past and the present. She couldn't get her mind to shut up, she couldn't get her hands to push her up, she couldn't –

"Santana?"

A single word intoned on a familiar voice was all it took for everything to suddenly still, her heart pausing in her chest.

"Shit. Lopez? Dude. Can you hear me?"

_Go away,_ her mind automatically supplied. But her voice didn't seem to be working. All she could hear from herself was a string of sounds that sounded suspiciously like whimpering. Fucking whimpering. _Go away, Puck._

But of course he didn't. She heard him dropping to his knees, felt his hands wrap gently – she didn't know Puckerman could be gentle like this – around her torso, before pulling her off the cement. She was too tired to fight him off.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay, Lopez. Shhh."

It took her a moment to realize she was crying. _No,_ she rallied rebelliously in her mind, _this can't be fucking happening to me._

"I've got you."

She wanted to punch his face in. She really did. But she blacked out instead.

* * *

><p>She dreamt of her mother singing, her voice clear and warm and heavenly in the ways Santana can't seem to remember whenever she's awake. When the song reached an end, her mother gathered her into her arms, the way she used to do when Santana was a little girl waking from a nightmare.<p>

"Tranquila, hija. Tranquila."

* * *

><p>"Is she gonna be okay?"<p>

The voice was hushed, but in Santana's I-just-suddenly-woke-up state, it sounded like a yell directed into her ears. Keeping her eyes shut, she inhaled sharply, taking in the smell of smoke still lingering on her skin, and other smells she couldn't quite identify.

"I think so. Air ways appear to be clear. I just need to deal with these. They're minor, but if I don't clean them up she might get some infection."

She remained unmoving for the better part of a minute, before she felt a hand grasp the underside of her right arm, something soft and wet pressing into the brunt flesh. Her entire body jerked away from the touch. Her eyes flew open on their own accord, and she caught a quick glimpse of the ceiling of her living room, and Puck and someone else before she began to writhe away from the hand that held her.

"Motherfuck – !"

Puck came over her quickly and wrapped his arms around her body, keeping her as close to immobility as possible. There was a girl standing beside her, both hands sheathed in immaculate white gloves. She was pinching a ball of cotton between her right thumb and forefinger.

"What the hell?" Santana choked, trying to pull her arm away.

"Lopez, your grandma is asleep," Puck grunted, while the girl came closer and reapplied the piece of cotton to her burns. Santana gasped at the pain, but Puck's iron grip kept her in place. "Dude, chill. That's my cousin."

Santana shook her head vigorously, twisting herself in his arms. "I am going to kill you, Puckerman." She growled through the taste of her own tears.

She thought she heard him chuckle wearily. "Not if Jesse gets me first."

Her body snapped and straightened at the sound of the name, images and emotions from earlier in the night flooding into the stream of her consciousness. Puck's cousin took advantage of her sudden motionless to work quickly on her injuries, pulling medical materials from a tiny kit Santana didn't notice earlier. "Jesse?"

Puck said nothing.

* * *

><p>"Should…Should I stay?"<p>

Spread out on the couch, Santana shook her head, examining the bandages on her arms. "Go, Puck. Thanks. Tell your cousin that I said thanks, too."

Puck didn't move. She looked up at him tiredly. He was chewing his inner cheek, and in her mind she imagined him stringing a set of words together and handing them to her before bolting out of her presence.

"Did you need something else?" She prodded, closing her eyes. She had a feeling she knew what was coming, but if Puck had any sense, he wouldn't say another word.

Of course, no such luck. This was Puck, after all.

She heard shuffle his feet. Nervous. "Look, Lopez, about the shit earlier."

Santana felt herself tense, her already worn-out muscles groaning to her involuntary reaction. The "shit earlier" replayed in her mind, soaking into her senses. It baffled her that she could still feel the fire, as though she had caught it like a disease. Now it was growing inside her, blazing a sure path across her blood vessels.

If she tried hard enough she could still feel the way the girl's breath was pushing into her skin, the trembles of her body with every choking cough. And blue, staring into her eyes, the different shades of fear transforming into reluctant trust.

"Jesse says it's best if we all just, you know, forget…"

Santana's eyes were suddenly open wide, glaring at him, her eyes more dark and distrusting than ever. She couldn't believe this. How the hell did she even get involved in all of this fuckery?

"Forget?" She repeated, slowly rising off the couch. He took an automatic step back. If she wasn't so angry, she might have found it amusing. "Forget? Tell Jesse to fuck himself." Her voice was low, sending a chill up his spine.

"Look, Lo–"

"Somebody died." She interrupted in the same low tone, her face forming an ugly expression. "Died, Puckerman."

"Shit." He whispered, staring fearfully at her. "Look, I…I… we didn't know." He held his hands up. "Jesse swore it was empty. Hell, it looked fucking empty…"He trailed off, his gaze dropping.

"You son of a bitch." Her tone was cold, harsh, demeaning. It felt like a whip to his backside.

"Lo–"

"Get the fuck out of my house." Now her tone was flat, and it was even more frightening than if she'd yelled at him with a gun pointed to his chest.

When he didn't move, she moved towards him threateningly. Logically, he knew that a person as beat–up as she was could barely do any serious damage to him, but you never really knew with Lopez. Girl was resourceful.

"I'm going to say it one last time."

Puck sighed. "Look, alright, alright. I'm going." He retreated several steps. "Jesse just wanted me to remind you–"

Her eyes burned with fury. "Oh, yeah? Jesse just wanted to remind me what?"

"That whatever happens among us stays among us."

Santana's line of vision shifted from Puck to the figure standing on the threshold of her front door. She couldn't believe Puck hadn't locked the door behind him. Then, with a burst of anger, she realized he didn't lock it on purpose. The sonovabitch was waiting for this. For him.

"Murderer." She spat out furiously towards the newcomer, clenching her fingers into tight fists. She didn't care how injured she was – she wanted to kick his ass. She moved forward but Puck blocked her way, wrapping an arm around her tightly.

"Don't," He murmured urgently into her ear. "Lopez, fucking trust me on this one. Don't."

She looked over Puck's shoulder. "You fucking bastard."

"Who, me?" Jesse said casually, running a hand through his hair and smiling at her, revealing the rows of his teeth. "Or are you talking to yourself? You were the one who picked house. I would have been happy to torch a car."

Santana felt the weight of her guilt and anger pushing at her. "You said it was empty!"

Jesse rolled his eyes. "We can stay here all night and do hundreds of rounds of the blame game. But you know as well as I do that it's impossible for the kettle to call the pot black."

Santana felt herself gnashing in fury. "Fuck you, Jesse. I fucking stayed. I fucking helped!"

It felt like a punch to the face when he laughed. "Right. So I guess that means that you've already atoned for your sins, huh?" He sneered. "Don't fool yourself, chica. You're just as much to blame as I am. That won't change." He took a step forward and brought himself almost face-to-face with her. "But I don't care about any of that." He said coolly. "Because there's no proof of me ever being near that house to begin with. But you? You've got evidence all over your skin."

She spat into his face defiantly. "You killed someone."

"No, Santana." He shook his head painfully slowly, wiping away her saliva with the back of his hand. "_You _did. At least, that's what everyone will say if you blow this out of proportion."

She tried to lurch herself forward, tried to create enough momentum to at least get Puck's body to ram into Jesse's. But she was too weak. Jesse smirked.

"See you around, Santana." He said softly, cupping her cheek with one hand. She tried to move away, but he only tightened his hold. "Be a good girl and don't get into trouble."

Santana gasped, the nine words transforming in her mind from Jesse's voice to another's. She was too shell-shocked to notice how Jesse walked uncaringly out of her house, or to hear the apologies a teary Puck whispered into her ear before he left.

Her shock was like a bullet in the head, travelling faster than the speed of light and coming at a force so strong it propelled her entire life far into the past, until she felt as helpless as she did when she was eight years old. It didn't matter how much she'd pushed her memories away: they always pushed back with a vengeance.

And here, tonight, was another memory, another fault, another misery.

She made her unsteady way to her bedroom, almost making the entire trip exclusively on her knees. And when she finally was alone in what should have been her only sanctuary, she made her way past the bed she never really slept in and crawled into her closet. She folded her legs into her body, pressing her chin to her knees, wrapping her arms around her calves. It was a position she knew well, something she picked up as a child and never lost.

She tried to fight it a bit longer, but she had virtually nothing left to fight with.

She gave in and began to cry.


	5. The Horse On The Dining Room Table

**The Horse On The Dining Room Table**

_ "Death is the horse on the dining room table."_

Brittany learned at a young age that people go to great lengths to avoid saying words like 'dead,' 'death,' and 'dying,' especially when they happen to be the only words to describe a situation. At thirteen and a half, she already knew people didn't say, _Your Daddy is dead._ No, they said things like, _Your father is in heaven_. And at fifteen, she and her sister listened to their mother explain to them tearfully, _Your Grandma is no longer with us_, instead of something more direct, like, _Your Grandma died last night._

At first Brittany didn't understand it. Why did people have to hide what they really wanted to say in other words? What was so bad about saying something like, _Your family just died, and you've lost everything._

Because now, at seventeen, those were the only eight words she felt like saying. Those were the only ten words she seemed to _know_.

Then again, it didn't really seem to matter whether she actually said the words out loud. There was no one to hear them anyway.

* * *

><p><em>"Electrical fire," The man – Dr. Rafael Burton, if she'd heard him properly – had informed her in gentle tones when she asked him why she was there. Brittany had stared blankly at him while he stood at the foot of her bed, the woman – an intern – adjusting some wiring in the machinery. <em>

_"I remember." Brittany had said, in a whisper so soft she almost couldn't hear herself. She had closed her eyes for a millisecond, and in that impossibly brief duration of time she remembered the way the heat was everywhere, the red-orange growling to devour her. And then eyes, eyes bursting through the smoke, eyes so black they seemed to suck her in like a black hole. _Who was she?_, she almost asked, but instead she heard her voice demanding, "Where's my Mom?"_

_The doctor had exchanged a meaningful glance at the intern, who put her hand gently on Brittany's arm. "She… she isn't here anymore." She had said softly, giving Brittany a vague impression of all the times her mother had cooed to Natalie when she was still a baby. "We're very sorry Brittany. But your mother and sister didn't make it."_

_At first, the only thing Brittany had managed to register was the mispronunciation of her name. _Britt-ah-nee,_ she longed to correct the older woman, not _Britt-ney._ Then the rest of the sentence suddenly made their hasty entrance into Brittany's brain, as though it had finally squeezed itself into mind-size proportions. Brittany had looked at the intern with growing horror, each passing second a traitor to her beating heart._

_"What?" It was choked this time, pulled deep from the growing chaos deep inside. What? What? What? It echoed in the room, filling all the empty spaces and saturating the silence._

_The doctor had launched into a summarization of "the injuries your mother sustained in the electrical fire" and threw around terms like "fourth degree burns," "peripheral vascular resistance," "cardiac output." Terms Brittany couldn't understand, though she never interrupted him, not even when the words all seemed to merge together into an endless stream of conscious confusion._

_But when his voice had softened and he began to slowly explain "smoke inhalation" and why they had failed to save Natalie, she began to hear a wild, choking sound, along with a string of "stop-stop-stop." Both the doctor and intern had looked at her quietly, neither saying a word. It wasn't until the tortured sounds had turned to wails that she realized she was the source of it._

_"We just moved here." Brittany had croaked after a long moment of non-composure, fighting to sound strong when she felt nothing like it. "My…my mom…" It felt like her voice had lodged in her throat and refused to be budged. "She can't be..." The word got stuck and refused to come out. "We just moved here."_

_"Ms. Pierce," he had tried to interrupt, his voice calm, "please–" _

_There were so many thoughts piercing her mind like different shades of light penetrating darkness, and she couldn't seem to hold on to any long enough to say them coherently. _Where are they, what are you talking about, but someone saved Natalie, how could this happen to me?_ The only thing that she managed to say, however, was,_

_"My sister hasn't even turned six yet." Her voice was raised, her body shaking with each choking sob. The doctor began to instruct the intern, who rushed through several drawers before pulling out a syringe. "She hasn't even turned _six_…"_

_Then something pricked her arm and everything faded._

* * *

><p>On the first night she managed to convince herself that this was all just a part of a terrible nightmare – like she had fallen into the world of <em>Inception<em> and she was stuck in a dream within a dream within a dream, and she just has to peel back each layer before she finally woke up.

But much later on, after she woke up gasping and twisting in the sheets, expelled violently from the real nightmare – where she found herself outside of a gigantic cubed glass that held, like a prison, her entire family, before burning them alive and her helpless to do anything – she was struck by the awful truth of reality.

* * *

><p>Sometimes she floated in the paradoxical sensation of being asleep and awake at the same time. On those bizarre moments she could almost swear she could see and feel her mother. She could feel the warmth of her arms and the tenderness of her embrace, the security of a living, breathing home. She could see the reassuring blue of her eyes that had as many shades as the ocean had waves, the theater of her facial expressions.<p>

There were so many things Brittany wanted to say to her. So many secrets she wanted to share. But always, always the same words left her trembling mouth.

"I'm sorry. Mom, I'm so sorry. I couldn't save you, I couldn't save Nat. I'm sorry…"

She could do all that in the maddening world of in-between. But the moment she became completely lucid, the hospital pillow beneath her drenched with her tears, her body aching like one gigantic bruise, she couldn't even remember what her mother looked like.

* * *

><p>Dr. Burton visited her almost twice a day. Accompanied by a swarm of interns who were all desperate to make an impression, he would come into the room and go over her chart, and update her on her physical state: <em>your vitals look fine, you're going quite well, you should be able to go ho – I mean… well, you're lucky to be alive.<em>

Sometimes it became difficult for Brittany to even comprehend it: how could these people say she was fine when every single part of her that used to feel alive didn't anymore? Why couldn't any of the sophisticated machinery latched into her body present data that correlated to how she actually felt? Because, she wasn't fine. She wasn't doing well. She would never be able to go home.

And if this is what it meant to be alive, she didn't understand the value of it. Who could blame her? Her body was whole but her spirit was crushed.

"Ms. Pierce… I know this is a bad time. But I'm afraid I'm obligated by law to ask you this. What do you want to do with the remains?"

* * *

><p>It was on her fourth day – or maybe it was the sixth – when she woke up to the sight of three boxes piled neatly by the door. She stared at them uncomprehendingly for a long moment, before Dr. Burton walked in to check on her.<p>

"What's that?" Brittany asked in a voice hoarse with lack of use, pointing to the boxes with a single finger.

He turned to look at the items in question and with a low, "Oh, right," began to explain that the fire department had dropped the boxes off while she was sleeping.

Brittany felt her mouth drying while she listened to him. According to him, these were the only items the firemen had been able to sort out of the wreckage.

"They ruled out foul play," Dr. Burton continued, "so they decided it was only right that you get the things they found."

Brittany wasn't entirely sure how she felt. She wasn't even sure how she should have felt. Some tiny part realized she should be feeling relieved – maybe even happy (or whatever shadow of happiness she was capable of feeling) – that she had something to remind her of the family that shaped her. Those items in the boxes, no matter what they might be, should be more important now than ever. More important than anything else.

But at the same time, another, greater part felt extremely angry, angry in a way that she couldn't quite explain. Angry and disbelieving. How could these boxes be the only things left? She shouldn't be able to stand the thought of these boxes forever being the meager measure of seventeen years and four lives. She should feel as though the world was mocking her: _I'm going to take everything away,_ it said, _but here, you can have these scraps to comfort yourself._

But she didn't know how to feel. Could she still feel?

"I don't want them," Brittany heard herself declaring in a cold, hard voice that she'd never used before. Dr. Burton was looking at her in wordless surprise, though his expression was telling her quite plainly that he was assessing her sanity. "Get them out of here." Almost like an afterthought, she added in a broken tone, "Please."

* * *

><p>It didn't her a week to have her entire being wiped away, to be replaced by an emptiness she couldn't fight. It invaded her mind and body, seizing her like a virus. It poisoned all of her thoughts and weakened all her resolve. It was everywhere: in the hollowness of her stomach, in the silence in her ears, in the numbed feeling of her mind.<p>

It wasn't just that she felt empty. It was more than that, because she couldn't seem to remember what it meant to be filled. What it meant to feel happy. What it took to be her.

She had gone through her entire life defining herself with the people she loved, with the family that surrounded her. Now that they were gone, what could possibly be left? Who was there to remind her who she was, to teach her what to value, to encourage her to reach for her dreams?

"Ms. Pierce?"

Brittany blinked, instinctually allowing her eyes to adjust to bright, white light while her thoughts burrowed into darkness. "Yeah?"

Dr. Burton stood by the edge of her bed, flanked by two individuals: a man with hair so ridiculously curly, smiling at her tentatively, and a woman with eyes so wide, Brittany wasn't sure if they were funny or terrifying. The doctor took a step closer. "I have good news."

Swallowing against a dry throat, Brittany slowly pulled herself into a sitting position. Cautiously, she replied, "Oh."

"We found you a family." He continued, gesturing to the two individuals behind her. The woman lifted her hand and made a painfully unnecessary wave.

Brittany stared uncomprehendingly. "Wh-what?"

Dr. Burton sighed. "We looked, but you don't appear to have any living relatives within the country. Because you're a minor, and an American citizen, we needed to register you into the foster system. But before we did, however, Will and Emma here offered to take care of you."

Her jaw fell open, but no sound came out. Her apprehension must have been all over her face, because the man suddenly said,

"Dr. Burton, could you give us a minute?"

The doctor looked at her once, before nodding. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

Once Dr. Burton had gone, the man named Will approached her slowly. "Hello, Brittany. Can I call you Brittany?" She nodded once, and he smiled wider. "I'm William." He stuck his hand out, but Brittany didn't take it. He waited for a bit, but after a quiet moment, he stuffed his hand back into his front pocket. Instead of looking discouraged, however, as Brittany expected him to, he just smiled sadly.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother and sister." He continued in a soft voice, taking the seat beside her bed. The woman quietly came to sit beside him. Brittany said nothing.

"Listen," He said gently, "I know we're total strangers and you don't know us at all. I know that this might be the last thing you want to deal with right now." He exchanged a glance with the woman, who nodded encouragingly at him. "But foster homes are more difficult to deal with. We both work at the local high school, and we know how hard being a foster child can be. And we just thought we could help you, and take you in… at least until you turn eighteen."

The woman made a sound of agreement. "We don't want to pressure you into a decision, but as we understand it, you've just moved here. If you were more comfortable with us helping you find some family member somewhere, we could do that, too. We just want to he–"

Brittany shook her head, and Emma fell silent. "There's no one else." She inhaled shakily. "I have aunts and cousins in Europe, but… there's no one else."

William nodded slowly. "Okay. It's okay."

The sympathy was overwhelming, and Brittany wasn't sure if she appreciated or hated it. "I've got nothing. I can't – I can't pay you back."

They both shook their heads. "We're not looking for any kind of payment, Brittany." Emma said gently. "We just want to help."

"I don't know." Brittany murmured apologetically, dropping her gaze.

"We could give it a test drive." William suggested, leaning forward almost enthusiastically. "Stay with us for a couple of weeks, until summer ends and school starts. Emma checked the school records, apparently you've already been enrolled at McKinley High – that's where we teach. If you feel comfortable with us, you're welcome to stay. But if you'd rather leave, we promise to find you somewhere to go. How does that sound?"


	6. Ask Me Nothing Leave Me Be

**Ask Me Nothing (Leave Me Be)**

First day back at McKinley, and Santana was already bored as _fuck_.

It didn't help that first period was Physics. It was absolutely ruined beyond absolution. Don't get her wrong, she didn't give a rat's ass that it was all science-y and shit. Held at gunpoint she'd probably admit that she did like Physics a little bit. Screw that, she probably liked it more than their balding, overweight professor, who spent more of their class period cracking dirty jokes than actually lecturing about kinematics, like he was supposed to.

Like she said. _Boring._

She was more than willing to spend her time pushing her way aggressively through the herd of students who – in their constant state of fear _of her_ – might as well have been as mindless as sheep. But she never needed to spend too much energy on any of these suckers – the crowd always parted easily to her, diverging effortlessly into two separate rows pressed against locker doors.

Especially on moments like this, when she walked around brandishing an extra large slushie held in her hand like a weapon. People just seemed to vanish into thin air whenever she walked by. Even teachers swallowed apprehensively when they saw her approaching.

Santana smirked to herself. _Suck it up, bitches._ First day back, and she still had the entire school body wrapped around her fist.

"Yo! Lopez!"

_Shit._ Santana felt herself tense at the familiar voice, her fingers tightening around her weapon of choice, a crease slicing between her eyebrows. She hadn't spoken to him since… Well, _since_. No chance in hell she was going to start now. "Lopez!" She ignored him, walking to her locker instead, using her free hand to twist in her code.

"What's with the silent treatment?" Puck asked grumpily as he slid in beside her, rubbing his mohawk absent-mindedly. "You were supposed to pick me up this morning, rememb–"

"What do you want, Puckerman?" Santana interrupted in a measured voice, turning to her side and facing him. Every muscle on her face was controlled, giving away no emotion. On anyone else, the entire moment might have sounded calm and collected, but Puck knew Santana – or at least, knew her as well as she'd let him – and he knew those eyes were fucking fit to kill.

"Dude, chill." He said softly, all traces of annoyance erased from his voice. He broke eye contact and looked around the hallway, making sure no one else could hear. In a softer tone he added, "I said I was sorry."

Santana slammed her locker shut with a bang loud enough to make a canon blast jealous. A few lockers away, a Cheerio squeaked in surprise. "Sorry doesn't cut it, Puckerman." She said in a low voice, without even bothering to look at him. "Sorry isn't gonna fix anything."

He said nothing for a moment, and she turned on her heels to walk away. But before she could make another move, he called out to her in a loud voice, "It's your fault, too, you know."

She reacted automatically, twisting around and tossing the contents of the slushie high into the air. She was quick, but Puck was quicker. It barely took him five seconds to bend, avoiding the curved path of the red liquid, before he threw himself to the side, smashing into several lockers with a metallic clang.

She was quick, and Puck was quicker, but it was the humming, tiny girl walking up from behind him, with her ridiculous woolen animal sweater, who was slow.

It surprised Santana when she realized she wasn't tempted to laugh at Rachel Berry when she began to gasp in the middle of the hallway, the cherry slushie dripping down the crown of her head and running down her cheeks. The students who had gathered around to watch – none of them seemed to have seen that her target was supposed to be Noah Puckerman – were the ones who began to chuckle. The other losers Berry hung out with in that singing club or something swarmed to her immediately, taking her to the nearest comfort room.

She should have felt even the tiniest ounce of satisfaction. After all, incidents like this were what guaranteed the rest of the school's perpetual fear of her. But all she felt was hollow. Her fingers grew slack around the empty cup, until it dropped to the ground.

"Santana!" A voice called out exasperatedly from behind her. Santana groaned inwardly. Of course, of all the teachers who could possible arrive at the scene, it had to be Schuester in his stupid vest.

Well, whatever. Santana Lopez never went down without a fight.

"Si?" She called out sarcastically, turning to face the teacher in question. For a moment all she took in was the disappointment evident on his face – after seeing it so much, she was surprised it still managed to make a really minuscule part of her feel a little bad – before her eyes drifted almost uncaringly to the blonde girl standing behind him, watching the entire scene with shocked, blue eyes.

Santana almost looked right over her. After all, she could have been any other girl in the world. Until Santana felt that little burst of recognition, and she began to really look. _Jesus fuck._

She gasped out loud before she could help it, her eyes widening involuntarily with shock.

"Everybody get to class!" The Spanish teacher's voice was distant, sounding even more faraway as he moved closer towards her. Santana felt terrifyingly immobilized. _She's here. Shit. Why the fuck is she here?_

"Santana, I'm really disappointed in you. It's the first day of class." _Please, please shut up, _she almost said. _Oh, God._ She wanted to puke.

It was probably insane that she couldn't even remember what Schue was scolding her for any more. And it was probably a mark of how stupid he was that he couldn't tell he was telling off a student who was living on a different plane of existence, choking on waves of guilt and fear so strong her body was like a coastal land disintegrating to a tsunami.

"At least have the courtesy to look at me while I'm talking to you."

How could she? Her eyes were glued to Blondie, who was looking at her as well, her eyebrows scrunching together as she began to really look at Santana, the faintest signs of recognition dawning across her face… _Fuck, don't look at her! _Santana began to blink rapidly, tearing her gaze away from the other girl's.

"Santana?" Now Schue was beginning to look concerned. When did her life turn into a damn nightmare?

"I…I…"

It hit her then: _don't say anything._ If Blondie recognized her voice, it would all be over. She glanced at Puck, who was still standing nearby, even if all the other students had already left for their classes when Schuester told them to. She caught the bewildered look on his face, and understood his surprise perfectly: she'd never fallen silent at a verbal smack down with a teacher before.

"Puck, go to class."

Dude, what the hell? Puck's face asked. Santana could remember that she was supposed to be mad at him, but when looked at him again, she felt nothing but growing horror.

_It's her,_ she wanted to wheeze out. _It's fucking her, Puck._

"Noah Puckerman!" Puck glanced at Schuester resignedly, then looked at her one last time, before turning around and slipping into a classroom. Santana watched him go, trying to focus on inhaling and exhaling through the panic. "Well, Santana, if you won't talk to me, it's Figgins you're going to have to see."

* * *

><p>Schuester marched her to office of Principal Figgins, with Blondie in tow. Santana tried not to look while they walked alongside each other, keeping her entire body angled away from the other girl. She tried not to think about the last time they'd been within the same two feet, with Santana's arms cradling the blonde close to her as possible as they flew out of a burning house, the images pouring into her mind until –<p>

"Wait here." The teacher instructed to her as they entered the secretary's office. "I need to bring Brittany here to Principal Figgins first."

_Brittany._ Santana thought in her mind, the syllables merging together, making this whole spectacle even more real. She watched Schuester lead the other girl into the adjoining room gently, waiting for her to take a seat before he took one himself. _Brittany._

Santana dropped into a seat ungracefully, her bag falling beside her.

The secretary chuckled. "This is a record, Ms. Lopez, even for you. You usually wait for lunch before doing something stupid."

Santana looked at her and frowned. _Act normal._ She shrugged. "You know what they say. New year, new rules." She pushed herself down on the chair, turning to look back into the other room as casually as she could, trying to strain her ears to hear the conversation inside.

The secretary followed her line of vision. For a moment she was silent, then she said warningly, "You might want to be careful about that one."

Santana inhaled sharply, turning to face the other woman. "What?"

"Admin wants to keep this quiet, but…" The secretary leant forward across the table as though they were conspiring together, and Santana couldn't help but lean forward as well. "You heard about that fire a few weeks back, the one a couple of miles from Lima Heights Adjacent?"

Santana swallowed nervously, but nodded once. Trying to keep her voice steady, she said nonchalantly, "Fuckin' duh. I live in Lima Heights Adjacent."

Clearly ignoring Santana use of inappropriate language, the secretary tossed her head in the blonde's direction. "Only living survivor."

Santana felt her mouth dry up, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. "Really?" She asked, her voice uncharacteristically hushed. _What happened to the little girl?_ The secretary looked surprised at the sudden change for a moment. "No one else made it?"

"No." The secretary shook her head solemnly, still staring at her in surprise. "No one else survived."

* * *

><p>Santana found herself staring obsessively at the blue carpeted floor of the secretary's office.<p>

It reminded her of the white ones they used to have back in New York, long before she'd been forced to live in this hell hole. She remembered the way her mother would clean the carpet thoroughly, especially from the stains it always seemed subjected to receiving.

"Never leave a trace." Her mother would whisper to hear, in that perpetually soft voice that almost always seemed painfully close to tears. "Understand, hija? Never leave a trace."

"Yes, Mami." Santana would reply dutifully, "I understand."

Santana blinked away the warm liquid in her eyes when she heard the door dividing the secretary's office and Figgins' lair slide open. She didn't dare look up when Scuester and the girl walked out, for fear of what she might see there. It didn't matter, though. They were talking in low voices over what Santana could only assume was a class schedule.

"Miss Lopez." Santana heard Figgins call out. It snapped her out of her reverie, thrusting her back into her own skin. _You're Santana Lopez,_ a voice growled in her head, _start acting like her._

"Ladies and Gentlemen, that's my cue." Santana said airily, as she stood, reaching for her bag. She pretended to tip an imaginary hat at the secretary, who shook her head wearily. This was the Santana she was used to.

"Can you even count the number of times you've been in this office?"

Without missing a beat, Santana replied cockily, "One hundred thirty-seven." She smirked. "I'll bet you anything I hold the fucking record for that one."

She knew was exuding indifferent arrogance – she was practically sweating it. But before she strutted coolly into Figgins' office, she found herself glancing back at the girl who had just exited it, expecting to see no one there.

She was wrong.

The blonde was standing at the door, with a perplexed Schuester standing behind her. She was staring at Santana with shocked eyes, her jaw slack and open.

Santana froze like a deer in the headlights, feeling like a criminal caught in the act.

"You – !" The blonde choked out, tears visible in her eyes as she took an unsteady step forward. Santana didn't need to hear any other form of confirmation, that word said all. _Shit, she remembers._ She wanted to move, scream, vanish, anything. But she remained as still as one of Michelangelo's statues, watching the blonde girl fucking _break_ right in front of her.

"Brittany?" Schuester said worriedly, reaching forward. His fingers only managed to graze the blonde's arm, because just as he had moved towards her she had thrown herself forward, directly into Santana.

Caught off guard, Santana couldn't have even blinked if she tried.

"Brittany!"

The minute amount of air in her body was pushed out in a huff, the full weight of the blonde girl falling against her. For a microsecond Santana's heart seemed to stop, and she almost felt weightless in their mid-fall, before her body collided fully with the ground beneath her in a loud crash. Pain seemed to explode everywhere all at once. Her head hit against something – the bottom of a chair, maybe – and she felt dizzy almost instantly.

_Fuck. Blondie is fucking strong._

If she thought that was strength, she learned a few seconds later that she was horribly wrong. A hand came down on her face, slapping across her left cheek with a force that made Santana see bursts of tiny white light dancing behind her eyelids.

"Stop! Brittany! STOP!" Schuester was yelling, his voice loud and close – he must have been trying to pull the other girl off.

The girl only held on more tightly. Santana knew she could have retaliated – Blondie was strong, but Santana had more experience at knocking people out than necessary – but when the girl's crying eyes looked into hers, some part of her chose not to. So she surrendered to the waves of anger and hostility and _wretched heartbreak_ emanating from the blonde, emptying her own self of any urge to fight back.

When the taller girl realized Santana wasn't responding at all, she deflated and collapsed heavily, her hot tears falling over Santana's swelling cheek, pricking the sensitive flesh like a thousand tiny knives.

"Why did you save me?" Brittany cried in a hushed tone no one else could hear, betraying a pain Santana knew all too well. It took her heart and crushed it into fine dust. _"Why did you save me?"_


	7. Out With The Old In With The New

**Out With The Old (In With The New)**

"_You really hurt me."  
>Princess of China, Coldplay feat. Rihanna<em>

She couldn't explain it.

She couldn't explain the way the words repeated endlessly in her mind, going on and on and on until it was impossible to separate them, until she almost didn't know what they even meant. She was filled – it seemed literally – with those words and those words alone, rushing through her blood vessels in place of blood. _Why did you save me? Why did you save me? _Everything outside of her was moving in a slow, silent pace, while the words rushed too hard and too fast inside her own head.

"Why did you save me?"

They leaked out of her mouth like saliva, choked and anguished: they dribbled down her chin and into the consciousness of the girl pinned beneath her. Through Brittany's tears, she could see the dark eyes looking up at her, impossibly clear and glassy at the same time.

Brittany felt herself being pried off the girl, like a weed being pulled away from the ground. Almost automatically, everything around her burst back into sound, a chaotic combination of William's frantic, "What are you doing? What are you doing?" with the principal's heavily accented, jumbled exclamations and the secretary's hiccup-like gasps. Words, too, rushed into her mind, pushing out _why did you save me_ and dragging into her consciousness other words, none of which helped sort through all the confusion.

It was all too much. Too much, too fast, too hard, too soon.

Brittany twisted furiously, her head pounding and her vision swimming as she tried to break free of the grasp around her, barely even realizing that she was panting out, "Leave me alone, leave me alone, _leave me alone_…"

"Breathe. Brittany, breathe." She realized she was being heaved out of the room. _No,_ she wanted to protest, _you don't understand, I need to go back in there. _But William kept dragging her away, down the empty, narrow hallways that made her feel constricted, like the growing tightness in her chest that made her feel weak. "Please, Brittany, calm down."

* * *

><p>Emma's office was clean. It was the first thing Brittany noticed when she opened her weary eyes and looked around her. The items on the desk were all arranged with respect to each another, with equal distances between separate objects. The rows and rows of books behind the guidance counselor all appeared to be in pristine condition, and without a single speck of dust. The stacks of pamphlets were arranged in neat columns, divided into various topics and sorted out by color.<p>

It was impeccable, immaculate, and to Brittany, just a tiny bit insane.

"Hello, Brittany." Brittany's eyes moved to the red-headed woman seated behind the desk dividing them, whose eyes were characteristically wide and attentive, her hands clasping and unclasping on the desk. "How are you feeling?"

Brittany sat up slowly, moaning slightly at the soreness in the muscles on her back. "What happened?" She asked in scratchy voice. "Did I pass out?"

Emma nodded slowly. "How do you feel, Brittany?"

The blonde opened her mouth to spew out some typical lie like, _I'm fine._ But something – she didn't know what – wouldn't let her. "I don't know."

"Okay. That's okay, Brittany. Do you remember what happened earlier this morning?"

_Of course I do. I'm not stupid._ "Yeah."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

Brittany dropped her gaze to her lap, looking down at the jeans she and Emma had bought just a week before, when Emma insisted she needed new clothes. She didn't want to go shopping – it felt too much like betrayal to her mother, the only person she'd ever really gone shopping with before – but Will and Emma had been so nice and patient with her. It felt almost wrong to delay their shopping trip any longer.

"Brittany?"

She didn't reply. Instead, she lifted her right hand and stared at it for a long moment, remembering the sharp sting when she slapped the girl across her left cheek. She should have felt satisfied. Maybe even a tiny bit happy. But the memory did nothing but make her feel oddly hollow and sick. "It's so weird." Brittany heard herself murmuring.

"What?"

"I hit her." Brittany whispered, tears clouding her vision all of a sudden – even she was taken aback. She couldn't even tell why she was crying. _Why am I crying?_ She looked up at the guidance counselor, fragmented thoughts falling in pieces out of her mouth. "I… it was just…I couldn't…"

There was a long pause while Brittany tried to rein her confused emotions in. Then Emma said gently, "Why did you do it?"

Brittany bowed her head and let out a shaky laugh, which sounded weird – bordering on creepy – even to her own ears. "It's hard to explain." But it wasn't. _I wish she never came to help. _Logically, it should have been easy for her to say, but it just wasn't. _I wish she just let me die, instead of saving me. I mean, where did she even come from and why was she even there?_

"Try." Emma coaxed lightly, reaching over to lay a box of tissues at the edge of her desk. Brittany almost laughed again, reaching for a ply. "Just try, Brittany."

Brittany shook her head once, wiping her tears off. She'd gone so long without telling anyone about the fire, about the weight of her little sister cradled in her arms, about the girl who launched them both out a second floor window. That secret felt like the only thing she had left.

Yeah, sometimes it didn't make sense. She just didn't want to talk about it.

Emma opened her mouth to say something, but Brittany butted in quickly. "She just… she reminded me of someone." Brittany supplied, trying to sound convincing as she could. It would be an understatement to say that she didn't know how to lie. Then again, it wasn't a lie. Not really. "She reminded me of someone and I freaked out." She waved her hands vaguely. "Anyway, I'm sorry."

The older woman was quiet for a moment, looking at Brittany carefully across the space between them. It almost felt like a test, like she was trying to look as deeply as she could into Brittany's eyes to find the secrets there. Brittany kept herself as still as possible, willing herself to empty her mind and to meet the other woman's gaze without flinching.

"It's okay." Emma finally said, and Brittany slowly exhaled the air she didn't realize she was holding in. "It's okay, Brittany. I know you didn't mean it."

"Right." Brittany heard herself agreeing eagerly, while her eyes looked back down at her right hand. It felt odd, almost like it was tingling with residual energy, aftershocks from the slap earlier. _Why did you save me?_ She curled the fingers into her palm, forming a tight fist. She inhaled deeply, trying to mean the words as she said them. "I totally didn't."

Emma nodded once, satisfied. She went back to fluttering her nervous fingers across her desk. "Do you feel like attending class?"

Brittany almost stopped breathing. _No._ "Yeah. Totally."

* * *

><p>She was in her first class for the school year, and she couldn't bring herself to care enough to concentrate. Sitting in the very back of English, all Brittany could think of was how everything had changed around her, and how everything that had changed seemed to be changing her.<p>

It was true. She knew it was true. Today, she had deliberately hit someone for the first time. She had been dishonest straight to someone's face, someone who was nothing but kind and sweet to her. It was all so horrible, and she knew that she should have felt more than a little ashamed.

But really, the worst part was that she knew she didn't. Not at all.

It was like a New Brittany had been born that horrible night, taking over the Old Brittany and locking her away.

She sighed, her gaze wandering briefly to the front of the room, where the teacher was writing down words on the board like "Linda Pastan" and "_To a daughter leaving home_," words the Old Brittany would have copied down in a notebook so she could ask her mother about them once she got home. But the New Brittany just watched as the chalk moved across the smooth surface of the board, forming a stream of letters that Brittany found herself staring at for a long moment, until the letters were words and the words were thoughts, until her vision was blurred with all the tears she still couldn't bear to cry.

_When I taught you_

_at eight to ride_

_a bicycle, loping along_

_beside you_

_as you wobbled away_

_on two round wheels,…_

The bell rang abruptly, the teacher's hand stilling mid-verse. Students began to stand, jamming notebooks into their bags, while Brittany remained frozen.

"Two-page essay on the poem!" The teacher called out over and over while her students filed out of the room. "Due next week!"

The Old Brittany would have thought about making a mental note to remember. The New Brittany just raised her fingers to angrily wipe away the traitorous tears, holding back the sobs in her throat. The New Brittany just grabbed her bag from the floor and shuffled out of the class, head bent over.

* * *

><p>Her next period was Trigonometry, a subject she never particularly liked, a subject the Old Brittany only managed to understand with the help of her mother. The teacher – a tall, thin man with snow white hair and great, round glasses – began saying things like "c squared equals a squared plus b squared" the minute the students walked in.<p>

Another class, another seat in the very back, with her body settles as low as it could go on the chair, almost as though she was hoping it would swallow her whole.

Brittany watched as the man drew a particularly long line across the board, until that line seemed to take residence in her mind, extending constantly like a nagging thought driving away all other thoughts in her mind: _why didn't she fight back?_

Of all the questions, this was the one she found herself thinking as she watched more lines get drawn harshly across a great expanse of space, the chalk like a knife slicing into the board, spurting out bits of white dust like blood.

She had a feeling the girl was capable of defending herself. She remembered that night, the way arms had wrapped around her, lifting her off the ground; the hard push of a body slamming into hers as they flew out into the sky; the perfect projectile of a liquid thrown at just the right angle. The girl was clearly capable, as much as she was clearly bully material.

And while Brittany didn't know much about violence, but she was almost certain the other girl did.

So why didn't she use it?

The New Brittany didn't even bother to listen to the teacher's final instructions when the bell finally rang. She only looked around long enough for her eyes to search through the crowd on their own accord, looking for a person she wasn't even sure she even really wanted to see. _Really, Brittany?_ She asked herself sarcastically. _You're looking for her?_ She shook her head and lowered her head.

But her eyes kept looking, anyway.

* * *

><p>Later that night, as Emma laid down the contents of their supper into sparkling dishes, Brittany traced imaginary patterns into the spotless table cloth. It felt so odd to have everything in perfect order all the time, without a single trace of anything randomly out of place. It was the opposite of everything the Old Brittany had known, and it was enough to kindle an odd yearning in the New one.<p>

"So, Brittany," William asked her lightly, forcing to her to look up tiredly, "how was your first day of class?"

Brittany stared at him questioningly for a moment, wondering if he was joking. He was there in the Principal's Office with her, after all, and he watched her lose it. Why was he asking her what her day was like?

"What do you mean?" She asked him in a barely-there whisper.

He shrugged. "Well, I know you had a bit of a rough start," _Understatement of the century,_ Brittany thought bitterly, "but I was hoping it made a turn for better. Did it?"

Emma took the seat in front of her, and they both watched her with the hope so painfully evident in their eyes. Brittany swallowed, thinking back quickly, trying to find something – anything – to tell them.

"Well…" She thought back to the crowded hallways where the boys looked her up and down appreciatively, where the girls looked her up and down judgmentally. She thought back to the classrooms where the teachers stared through her, almost just as much as she stared through them. "Yeah, it did." She exhaled through the lie, trying to smile even if the muscles felt all wrong on her face. "My first day was great."

"Really?" William asked enthusiastically, as a grin burst on his face. "Awesome!" He exchanged an excited glance with Emma. "Look, I know it's a bit too early for you to think about joining clubs, but… there's this one club I think you might like."

* * *

><p>"Oh!"<p>

It was the second day of class, and she was on her way to Spanish. She was lost in the vast world of her thoughts when she bumped into – knocked over, really – the small girl she recognized as the one who'd been drenched in the cherry slushie the day before.

"Sorry!" Brittany said hastily while she helped the other girl to her feet. Compared to her, the girl was so incredibly little, with smooth dark hair and warm, brown eyes. "I'm sorry, uhm…"

"Rachel," the girl piped up helpfully, as she ran her hands down her star-patterned dress. She stuck her right hand out. "Rachel Berry. And you are?"

"Ah, Brittany. Brittany Pierce." She extended her arm, reaching for the other girl's hand.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance." Rachel said, pumping her hand twice before releasing it. "You're Mr. Schuester's new ward, aren't you?"

Brittany blinked, before nodding slowly. "Willi – I mean, Mr. Schuester's – dependent, yeah."

"Mr. Schue, you mean. That's what we Glee clubbers like to call him." Rachel nodded importantly at the puzzled look Brittany could feel on her face, her eyes drifting up and down Brittany's frame in a way that made the taller girl fold her arms across her chest.

"So are you an exchange student of some sort? Mr. Schue didn't explain to us why you were staying with him."

Brittany bit the inside of her cheek, wondering to herself if it were possible for her to just shake her head politely and walk off. She was sure this girl was nice, but she just wasn't in the right mind to make friends with anyone. In a voice that sounded like it was barely leaving her throat, Brittany replied, "Something like that."

Rachel nodded again, in a self-satisfied air. "Were you just headed to his class?"

Brittany sighed inwardly. "Yeah, I was."

"Good!" Rachel beamed eagerly, linking her arm with Brittany's. "We can go together. Now, Mr. Schue told me yesterday that he was going to ask you to join the club. I know you might have heard all sorts of praise for our little family, but I thought you'd like to hear from the inside what the New Directions is really like."

And just like that, Brittany figured out why Rachel was such an easy target for bullying. She just talked _endlessly_. It was long and loud and filled with dramatic pauses and elaborate hand gestures, like she was demanding for the entire universe to stop and pay attention to her. Brittany remained silent, not only because she had nothing to say, and because it would have been impossible to get a word in, anyway. She contented herself to nodding randomly in time to the conversation.

She was almost drunk on relief when they entered the classroom. She began to make her way to the back of the class, as was becoming quite customary for her, but Rachel laid a hand on her wrist. "We should sit together!"

Brittany opened her mouth to refuse, her eyes still lingering on the single remaining empty seat on the back of class. "I…I…"

"Come on!" Rachel pleaded. "I haven't finished telling you all about last year's sectionals!"

Brittany sighed again, dropping into the seat. Instead of continuing with her story, Rachel asked her, "So, what do you know about Spanish, Brittany?"

Taken aback with the question, but mostly glad for an opportunity to get the other girl to stop talking, Brittany wracked her mind for anything. She blurted out the first thing she remembered. "Well, my mother has – had – a crush on Antonio Banderas once."

_Wrong answer._ Almost instantly, Rachel's eyes lit up as she launched into a monologue on the life of Antonio Banderas and the musicals he appeared in. "The movie version of _Evita_, of course, is the most popular of all his works. I could lend you my copy of the movie for your mother to watch, if you like!"

Brittany didn't realize how tightly she was gripping the desk until she felt the pain distinctly in each of her fingers. Keeping her eyes low and trying to focus on breathing evenly, Brittany whispered in a tight voice, "Sure."

Then Rachel's expression shifted. "Oh, it slipped my mind. You don't live with your mother."

Eyes widening automatically, Brittany's head snapped up, the abrupt movement painful in her neck. Heart pounding a million beats per microsecond, she blurted out, "What?"

Rachel looked at her with a puzzled expression, and said slowly, "Because you're an exchange student, right? Staying with Mr. Schue?"

Brittany blinked, the tension flowing out of her body as quickly as it entered it. "Right," she mumbled in a sad voice. "Right."

* * *

><p>They were almost twenty minutes into their lecture – which consisted of William sprouting out phrases in Spanish and encouraging them to repeat them back to him – when the door suddenly swung open, and there she was.<p>

She was wearing a camouflage jacket with black jeans, her combat boots completing her look: cool and dangerous. Narrowed black eyes, cold and distrusting, swept over the room, meeting Brittany's and lingering for a tiniest moments. An eyebrow arched when she noticed Rachel Berry sitting beside her.

"Santana." William greeted. The girl's head turned towards him. When he was sure he had her full attention, he began to talk in Spanish so quick, Brittany couldn't even distinguish words. When he felt silent, the girl shrugged defiantly and responded in an even voice, her own Spanish fluent.

"Who's that?" She asked Rachel through the corner of her mouth.

Rachel made an odd sound, like the little squeak a mouse makes when caught. In a very, very soft voice – the first time Brittany heard her voice low – she answered, "Santana Lopez."

Brittany was about to ask her what the two were saying to each other, but the girl began to stomp her way to the back of class. Brittany's eyes followed her movement, watching silently as the girl sat down and folded her arms across her chest tightly.

"Brittany, pay attention." Rachel whispered beside her. "Santana Lopez is nothing but trouble."

"Really?" Brittany asked just as softly. Old Brittany would have listened. New Brittany just ignored her, because the girl suddenly turned her head so they were staring directly at each other.

Brittany's breath caught, an odd cocktail of emotions sweeping through her. _Why did you save me? I hate you. Why didn't you fight back?_

_Who are you?_


	8. The Moronic Inferno

**The Moronic Inferno**

_Lunchtime in McKinley is like freakin' garbage segregation,_ Santana thought loudly in her mind, sitting alone at a table, distracting herself by watching people rush around her to cluster with their friends.

This whole damn labeling business was the worst thing about being stuck in WMHS: people fell into their little cliques and gangs and groups faster than anyone could blurt out "social stratification." It was almost like people were dying to be labeled, dying to be identified into a stereotype just so they could belong somewhere, but how fucked up was that?

_Whatever,_ she thought to herself scornfully. _Stupid people, stupid lives._

Santana rolled her eyes when she heard a voice call out loudly, "And this is where our humble little family dwells in the lunch hour! As you can see, we Glee clubbers have our own little table, all to ourselves." Santana turned her head around to yell for that stupid little dwarf to shut her gigantic mouth, but the scathing words died at her lips.

_What the hell?_

There she was, standing _right there_, beside Manhands for the second time that day. _Manhands_, of all the damn people she could have friended up with in this whole school – Manhands and her annoying little group of lyric-breathers, tune-hummers, shoe-tappers and whistle-blowers. The Glee Club: directed by Schuester himself, the little club thought they could re-write all the rules overnight by tying together the weirdest combination of people and singing about it. All kinds of weird; not to mention tragically idealistic.

Santana watched with narrow eyes as the midget introduced Blondie to everyone, and vice versa. "This is Finn," she said, her hands motioning toward the boy who was sporting a smile that screamed _awkward, awkward, awkward,_ "he's the quarterback of the McKinley Titans." _And Big Foot's long lost brother,_ the tiny voice in Santana's muttered derisively.

"Quinn." The cheerleader said, smiling even as she wrapped a possessive hand around Finn's arm. Her golden hair in a tight ponytail, she added, "Captain of the Cheerios and President of the Celibacy Club." _You mean Captain of Sue's League of Evil Bitches and President of the Biggest Joke in all of Ohio?_

"Hi, I'm Mike." Smiling warmly – perhaps the first genuine smile so far – the Asian stood and offered a hand to Blondie. "I like to dance." _Yeah, righ_ – the voice in Santana's head faltered for a moment. _Well,_ she admitted grudgingly, _Asian's pretty okay. Freakin' overachiever._

"Ti-Ti-Tina," the second Asian stuttered around a very shy smile, making Santana's eyes roll. "D-d-dancer." _Seriously, the fake stutter was so yesterday, Marilyn Manson wannabe._

"I'm Artie." A gloved hand gave a tiny wave, the other pushing a set of glasses up a nose. "President of the AV Club." _I'd say something about needing a new set of wheels, but I'm mean, not cruel._

"Hola!" Standing and offering a doubtlessly manicured hand, "Kurt Hummel, at your service. Future Broadway alumni." _Future alumni of the closet, too, especially now that there's_ –

"Blaine. I'm new here, too, I just transferred from Dalton Academy." _Yep, you go eyebrows. I definitely smell the makings of a June wedding._

"Mercedes Jones." The girl smiled. "I'm the new Aretha Franklin." _Don't let her hear you say that._

"Hi, I'm Sam." The last – but definitely artificially – blonde of the group smiled. "I'm in the football team with Finn and Mike." _With position do you play? Ball-sucker?_

"And that's all of us!" Berry clapped her hands together, looking more and more hobbit than human to Santana. All she needed was a long pipe and a glass of ale. _Now that's a Christmas gift I won't mind giving._

Santana looked away when she saw Mike pulling out a chair for their newcomer. It's not that it was any of her business anyway, who Blondie chose to make friends with. It's not like it should matter to her what circle of hell Blondie fell in. It was hell, regardless.

Except.

Maybe it was okay that Blondie end up with McKinley's self-declared underdog team. Sure, they were weird, and maybe they belonged to the lowest circle of McKinley High's inferno, but they were okay. Kind of. Well, better than the others.

'Sides, if the stories were true, they stood up for one another. _They were there for each other,_ the thought so cheesy it turned Santana's mind into fondue. But whatever. It might be good for Blondie to be with those kinds of people.

Especially since…

Santana reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out two old newspaper clippings. Torn out hastily from just the day before, Santana spread them over the table and looked them over for the hundredth time.

'**2 die in electrical fire near LMA'**

'**No foul play in fire, chief says'**

When Santana first read the articles on the floor of her Abuela's living room, she couldn't believe a single word. They were off the hook? For real? She should have been grinning with relief like an idiot, or punching a triumphant fist in the air, or some shit as lame as that, but all she did was stare at the words and read them over and over. And later that night, staring into the dark of her closet, the words mixed in flawlessly with the five tortured words that made Santana's skin crawl: Why did you save me? _Why did you save me?_

Santana looked back up again at Blondie, who was now seated beside Mike, and probably enduring the typical round of questions any new student goes through. So yeah, maybe she should have felt better that she was in the clear.

But fuck it, she felt all kinds of _worse_.

* * *

><p>The grand plan was avoidance. In the hallways, in the ladies room, in the classrooms, in the gym, in the football field, everywhere. Avoidance at all fucking costs. So if Blondie was sitting in the back, Santana had no choice but to take a seat in the very front. Sure, now she was always flanked by the nerds and ass-kissers, and now she was always called on to recite (at least she got to disprove all the assumptions – being trouble didn't make her any less smart), but it was better than sitting anywhere near her and boiling in deep-shit guilt.<p>

One thing became pretty obvious, pretty soon, though: Blondie was not doing well in school. On the few occasions that she got called on to answer something, she stammered awkwardly or said something completely unrelated to the topic. It was like her mind was constantly off flying someplace else before being yanked back down to the ground harshly.

It was pretty bad. What was worse though was how people reacted to it. It was sick, how they began to anticipate hearing her say the wrong things, like it was an exceptional form of entertainment with the highest level of comedy.

It was bad that Blondie was doing bad; it was worse that everyone seemed to think it was the makings of a perfect joke; but the worst part?

The fucking worst part was that Blondie never did anything to stop them.

* * *

><p>A week into class, and the whole avoidance plan seemed to be going quite well.<p>

"Gently turn on the – Azimio! Stop playing with the matches! – turn on the gas."

Yawning hugely, Santana reached forward and turned the gas valve as instructed. Seriously, what was it with these teachers? Sometimes they taught the same damn thing, year in, year out.

"Now that the gas is on,…" Santana tuned her out like a radio station. She gots this. She didn't need no teacher tellin' her what to do.

"Well done, Santana." _Told ya, bitches._ She smirked, satisfied, as she watched the end of her Bunsen burner releasing a steady blue flame. _When it comes to me and fire…_

The smirk slid off her face, her eyes widening. _Oh, shit._

She whipped her head up to look towards the end of the long table, towards the very end, where Blondie was trembling, eyes wide and terrified, the matches shaking in her hands.

"Remember, never keep the gas valve open for too long without a flame, because it might–"

_WHAM._

_That,_ Santana thought to herself. _It might that._

Blondie was gasping on the floor, having jumped in shock when the tip of her Bunsen burner had burst into orange flames borrowed from Mike's burner, less than a foot away.

The class erupted into laughter, and Blondie's eyes filled with tears.

It hurt. It hurt in the oddest, most vague and indescribable way. Fuck, they weren't even friends. Blondie probably hated her guts almost as much she hated them. So why the hell did it fucking hurt, almost like she was the one on the floor, being laughed up by a bunch of morons?

Mike tried to bend over to lift Blondie off the ground, but she flinched away from him, and he backed away, uneasy and confused.

"Dumb blonde strikes again!" Azimio guffawed, bending over.

_Shut up,_ Santana thought menacingly, anger raising its ugly head inside her mind, its violent fists aching to punch something. _Shut up, motherfuckers, you know nothing._ She didn't even know why she was so angry. If it were anyone, anyone else in the world, wouldn't she be trying to laugh along with them?

"Why is she even in high school?" A cheerleader sneered. "My five year old sister is smarter than her."

"Christ." Santana muttered. Reaching forward and flipping the gas valve of her own burner off, she stood up in one fluid motion, then marched resolutely to the back of the class. The class hushed slightly as they watched her move, probably expecting her to pull off some sort of humiliating show at the expense of the girl on the floor.

It bothered her just a tiny bit that she was the type of person to do just that.

"Santana," Mike stepped in front of her, holding his arms out, "don't–"

"Better move if you want to keep your sweet dancin' legs, Chang." His expression crumbled, and he clenched his jaw, stepping away as instructed.

Blondie cringed when she approached, and that was almost enough for Santana to _take a hint and back off_ – but she didn't. Instead, face void of any emotion, she extended an arm towards the fallen girl, fingers uncurled and palm open.

"Brittany." She whispered, the name tasting strangely foreign, and yet feeling somehow familiar, on her tongue. Santana swallowed, a bizarre wave of déjà vu sweeping over her. "It's okay."

It was all so weird. Santana could _feel_ all the tiny details, like her mind had suddenly become a super-sponge, absorbing every little miniscule sensation like her life depended on it: the stillness of the air, the miniscule hairs rising all over her arms, the shimmering blue that stared at her unbelievingly, the tears slowly mapping their journey down the other girl's faintly flushing cheeks.

And the stares. The fucking murmurs. It made her feel so freaking self-conscious, to be caught in the exact sort of situation she never allowed herself to be in before. It made her body feel tight, tense, but no matter how uncomfortable it all was her arm never wavered.

Seconds seemed to extend into forever, but something in Santana was determined to wait it out, to keep her hand from shaking, until finally –

The girl's hand was cold and clammy against the flesh of Santana's palm. She didn't hesitate to pull the girl to her feet, wrapping her free arm around the blonde's torso securely when she stumbled slightly.

Santana steered the blonde out of the room, trying to ignore the way people stared at her with shock undulating off them like freaking waves, until they were out in the empty hallway. Automatically, and slightly aggressively, the girl freed herself from Santana's grasp, pushing herself into the wall and leaning heavily against it, tears still running silently down her face.

Standing gawkily with her arms hanging uselessly at her sides, Santana stared with wide eyes as sniffs began to accompany the damn tears. It didn't take long for the girl to slide clumsily down the length of the wall, her sniffs turning to sharp gasps. _Say something,_ her mind snapped, _fucking say something._

Santana opened her mouth to say anything – _please don't cry, I'm so fucking sorry, just stop letting them treat you like that;_ shit, she would have recited Shakespeare verbatim – when a shrill voice from the end of the hallway suddenly screeched, "Brittany?"

Footsteps, quick and hard, resounded loudly in the hallways, until Paleface Cosmetics and Eyebrows Mcbowties were bent over Brittany, pulling her off the ground and dragging her away. Santana watched and said nothing, something that felt very much like her heart lodged painfully in her throat.

Hummel rounded on her, in full bitch mode. "Santana, what the hell?" He said harshly, pointing accusingly in her direction. "Is no one really out of your scope of psychotic aggression? She's new here! What could she have ever done to you to deserve this?"

Santana stared at him bewilderedly, anger snapping back into her in amounts almost significant enough to get her to unhinge her jaw and fry his sorry little ass into tiny little pieces. _You've got it wrong, gay face,_ she wanted to retort, _I didn't do anything to her._

She would have said it, too, if her eyes didn't glance almost involuntarily to Brittany's face, her nose red and her tears unrelenting. Then she couldn't say the words anymore, because the words weren't even true; she _had_ done so much to her. The tortured _why did you save me_ echoing in her mind reminded her just as much.

"Kurt," the other boy called, his voice pacifying, "leave it alone. Come on, Kurt, let it go. Come on."

She wanted to have the power to sneer, to smirk, to smirk, to smile sardonically. But standing completely still as the two boys began to lead Brittany away, all Santana felt was a powerlessness, creeping over her skin like a fog and engulfing her in pure misery.

And it sucked bad, because she knew this damn feeling do fucking well.

And it sucked worse, because this feeling was latched onto a whole round of other shitty feelings and even shittier memories she didn't want to ever think about.

But it sucked the worst because no matter how long she stood, watching them move further away from her, Brittany never looked back.


	9. In The Darkness

Sorry it took quite a while. I had severe writer's block and for the longest time, and I just can't shake off the feeling that I'm writing this awfully. When I finally sat down to write this chapter with Mozart's passionate _Act 2, Commendatore Scene (Don Giovanni, K. 527)_ playing over my ears at maximum volume, I ended up writing the ending for this entire story instead. But here I finally am, back at the right order to things. It seems relatively short, but I promise many things are happening after this. And I won't take so long again.

Title from Johanna (Trio Version) from the ingenious _Sweeney Todd_.

* * *

><p><strong>In The Darkness (I Am Blind With What I Can't Forget)<strong>

* * *

><p>The ceiling was white.<p>

Brittany stared at it that night, her eyes running back and forth across the surface. She stared at it all night, _feeling_ the color more than seeing it, soaking it all in until she almost felt blinded. Should a color really feel so much like her life? Colorless. Empty. Lonely. Blank.

She stared while the clock on the bedside table – she still didn't want to think of it as _her_ clock, or _her_ desk, even if Emma insisted on calling them so – ticked steadily towards daylight. She stared until her eyes felt too dry, then until they felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets.

It was beginning to hurt, all the staring, but Brittany just kept doing it anyway. And the ceiling stared right back, sucking her in, like a blizzard swallowing her into oblivion. Right before she finally passed out, Brittany imagined the white liquefying above her, dripping down unto her, coating her entire body, smothering her in scarecrow dreams.

* * *

><p>Old Brittany loved mornings. She loved the way her little sister's hands would push against her sides in clumsy attempts to tickle, the high-pitched squealing of <em>"Britty! Britty!"<em> whenever she pretended she was still sleeping. She loved the lavender scent that she could only find when she was swathed in her freshly laundered sheets, filling her lungs with a smell so distinctly _home_. She loved the feeling of the warm sunlight flooding into her room through the windows, illuminating every inch of space until there was nothing but light. She loved opening her eyes to the comfort of her multi-colored room, the product of a happy weekend millions of lifetimes ago. She loved the familiarity of looking around and feeling her memories tucked safely into the corners, the pictures lining the walls. She loved the sight of breakfast on the table, her mother's love enveloping her the second she took a seat on the dining room table.

Old Brittany relished in the wonder that was every new morning, marveling in the beauty that surrounded her so effortlessly. But Old Brittany loved mornings the most because they reminded just how many reasons there were to wake up and _live_.

New Brittany hated mornings.

She hated mornings with a fiery passion she didn't know she was capable of feeling. She hated mornings, and the entire day that followed every morning, the slow drag of the mundane that had become her entire existence. She hated mornings, those cursed moments that reminded her so keenly of just how much she had lost, how much she could never hope to find again. She hated mornings, and how they made her feel like she had been rendered a void, just like that blank ceiling up above her. She hated mornings and how they resounded with the maddening silence of voiceless screams.

New Brittany woke up every morning to the question of _why do I even go on?_

Sometimes it still managed to scare her that she had no answers.

* * *

><p>She realized that the hallways of McKinley high were the perfect settings for horror movies.<p>

In the light, the students looked so laid back and casual, indifferent and uncaring, but Brittany could feel the smirks and sneers behind every empty smile. Dim the lights just a tiny bit and maybe it would be possible to see the darkness of every single living soul, the monsters behind every mask.

It was unnerving. She had been feeling their stares and hearing their whispers for a while now, but it never felt more prominent than at this moment; she felt more of an outsider than ever_. Stupid chemistry experiment._

"Hey! You!"

Brittany told herself not to look, not to turn around. She began walking faster, away from the source of the call.

"Blondie!"

She remembered her first day there, the sight of Rachel Berry dripping down red liquid unto the floor. Her arms wrapped around her body, shielding herself from an invincible, invisible cold that seeped through layers of clothing and sank into her skin.

"Hey! I'm talking to–"

"Hello, Brittany."

Blue eyes snapped up from the floor. Mike Chang stood in front her, his stance relaxed but his eyes cautious. In one of his hands he carried the bag she had left so mindlessly in the chemistry lab the previous day, after _she_ had pulled her off the floor and out into the hallway.

"Mike." Brittany replied, trying not to sound so relieved that it was Mike who had taken her bag, and not someone else. The caution in his eyes melted away when she said his name, and he offered her a half-smile. "Hey."

"I've got your bag." He held it up, keeping his voice light. "I was looking for you after class yesterday, but I couldn't find you anywhere. I thought you were coming to Glee club so I decided to bring it along, but when you didn't show up…" He shrugged. "I knew I could have given it to Mr. Schue, but I wasn't sure if you would have wanted me to do that. So I decided to stuff it in my locker." When she said nothing, he continued, "Don't worry, I made sure that it wouldn't smell like dude."

"Oh, no it's not that, it's…." Brittany shook her head slowly. "Just, uh… thanks." She extended an arm to take it from him, and he handed it over smoothly. Brittany swung the straps over her shoulders, feeling slightly safer with the weight on her back. "Thanks, Mike."

He smiled in response, rocking on his heels. "Well, I've got to go to class, but I'll see you at lunch, right? At the Glee table."

Brittany nodded numbly. "Right."

"Great." He smiled wider, then waved once before swinging around and heading the opposite direction. She watched him go for a moment, trying to recall what class she was supposed to have first. When she turned around to head to the direction of her classroom, she found her path blocked by two massive boys who could have auditioned for the role of Bane for _The Dark Knight Rises_. Her stomach dropped to her feet in an instant when she realized they were both carrying the infamous slushies.

"We heard you were having a hard time in class." One of them began, taking a step closer, smirking as he sloshed the contents of the large cup around. Brittany felt herself taking a step back, her throat tightening. "We thought… maybe we could help."

"Yeah," the other guy sneered, taking a similar step, closing in on Brittany like predators going for the kill. "Absolutely. I mean, my boy Karofsky here ain't the brightest of them bunch, but we get by pretty cool." He tossed his head once. "We got a secret formula."

_Right,_ Brittany thought in her head, mentally preparing herself for the worst.

"You see, we drink this." The boy named Karofsky raised the slushie higher in the air. It was a sickening green color, and Brittany felt her insides churning because, _why did she think of wearing a white shirt today?_ "Want to try one? It might help you grow a brain."

The insult hit her full-force, tears pooling in her eyes on pure instinct. He laughed at the look on her face. All it took was a flick of his wrist.

It felt like a freezing punch to the face. Brittany felt her eyes close instinctually, trying to not gasp too loudly in shock at how cold it felt. _Is this what it feels like to be living in the Arctic?_ She could feel the individual lines of liquid dripping down her face, like slimy tendrils of some gross plant. Her eyes began to sting sharply, and she found herself thinking _poor Rachel_ before she could help herself.

"Hey!" Brittany couldn't really help how her entire body seemed to pick up at the familiar sound of _that_ voice. "You! Escaped zoo bear!" The voice was getting louder, as though Santana was rushing towards them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"


	10. My Heart Is Torn Up

Readers, thank you for your kind words. I'm pleased to tell that you that I've been looking forward to writing this particular update for a long, long time. I know the overall tone might seem kind of dark and intense (perhaps to a degree even overwrought and twisted), but I promise it won't be that way forever.

I am dedicating this chapter to two fascinating characters whose insanity reflects perfectly in each other: the Batman and the Joker.

* * *

><p><strong>My Heart Is Torn Up<strong>

* * *

><p><em>"Someone filled up my heart with nothing.<em>

_Someone told me not to cry._

_But now that I'm older,_

_My hear is colder, and I can see that it's a lie."_

_Wake Up, Arcade Fire_

* * *

><p>When Santana was a child, she wanted to become a superhero.<p>

"What about a doctor?" Her mother had asked her when she first admitted it, in the sanctuary of her darkened bedroom. Santana can remember the way she was crushed tightly to her mother's chest, two arms wrapped protectively around her small frame while she rose and fell to the even beat of her mother's breathing, a chin pressing lightly against her hair. "You can save lives, hija."

Santana had shaken her head. _No._

"Lawyer? You can fight for justice." _No._

Athlete? Astronaut? Archeologist? Artist? Explorer? _No, Mami. _Stubborn head shake. _Superhero._

Her mother had chuckled dryly. There was only silence for a long moment, and Santana had begun to wonder if her mother had fallen asleep. She had settled her head against her mother's heart, listening to it beat steadily on. Just as her own eyes had begun to a close, her mother had asked softly, "Can you tell me why?"

Santana hadn't replied then. She was sleepy, and her mother was so warm. _Because of you,_ she had answered in her mind, just as sleep dragged her into the safe world of oblivion. _I want to save you._

She never did.

* * *

><p><em>Santana Lopez, you are so fucking stupid!<em>

Fuck this whole retarded situation. Why the hell couldn't she just back the hell off? Dammit, why couldn't she just stay away? For Christ's sake, the fucking plan was _avoidance_. She'd already broken her own damn rules once this week, why the hell was she so eager to repeat the same mistake twice?

"Hey! You! Escaped zoo bear!"

_Great._ Now she was in sinking deep in the quickshit of her own making. _Stupid!_ She yelled in her mind as her feet carried her as quickly as they could to where Karofsky and Azimio were standing, with green slushie dripping from the crown of Brittany's head to the floor between them. Anger she shouldn't have been feeling in the first place snapped into being, taking over her entire body like an inch she couldn't quite scratch. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The small crowd that had gathered to watch when Brittany had first gotten slushied cleared out when they saw Santana approaching. Even Azimio had stepped away. It was Karofsky who turned to face her, frowning menacingly. "What's it to you, Lopez? You've always been the best at slushie welcomes for newbies, anyway." He sneered at her. "Don't tell me the rumors are true? Has McKinley's resident head bitch really gone soft this time around?"

Santana felt her face warming as her eyes narrowed, her fingers curling into fists automatically. Keeping her voice low so no one else would hear them, she said evenly, "I don't know where you've been getting your info, closet-case," his nostrils flared and his eyes widened briefly, before narrowing back into angry slits, "but I can tell you…" she took a slow step forward until they were barely a foot apart, her face inches away from his face, "that you're _wrong_."

The bell rang loudly in the hallways, and students began to rush around them. Santana glanced for the briefest of seconds to Brittany, who was watching with shocked, wide eyes. Karofsky took a tiny step forward, closing the gap. "Fuck you, Lopez." He spat in a subdued voice, too soft for even Azimio to hear. "If there's anyone here displaying latent homosexual tendencies, it isn't me."

Santana raised an eyebrow, keeping her face unnervingly cool. It was an empty insult and they both knew it. A nasty smile spread over her face as her eyes darted slowly to Ladyface Hummel as he ran by with the Bowtie Kid at his heels, obviously headed to a class together. Karofsky followed her gaze and tensed automatically, looking away as the two disappeared around a corner.

"Keep telling yourself that." Santana whispered, her smile transformed into something quite sickeningly sweet. "But don't drag any of us into your closet world, darling." She looked over her shoulder to look at Azimio, eyeing the slushie still full in his bear claw hand. "Was that for anyone? Because I, for one, think you should fucking drink that yourself."

The other boy stared at her uneasily for a long moment, before glancing warily at Karofsky. "God, you're both just a bunch of scared pussies, aren't you? It's no wonder that you lead the worst football team in the country. There's not enough testosterone to go between the two of you." Santana began to move around the two jocks to get to the other girl, but before she could, Karofsky made a sudden lunge for the slushie, making an incredible toss that Santana barely had time to dodge.

In retrospect, she probably shouldn't have.

Brittany gasped out loud as the cold hit her already stinging flesh, the red color combining rather horribly with the green, making her look like a Christmas decoration gone wrong. "Shit," the blonde hissed, her fingers automatically moving towards her eyes.

"Don't." Santana instructed quickly, grabbing hold of the fingers. "Don't rub it in, it'll sting worse. Dab it and keep blinking." The other girl squirmed and followed the instructions, though she said nothing. When the other girl was able to open her eyes just a tiny bit, Santana spun around to face Karofsky, vicious words already on the tip of her tongue. But she barely registered the blend of blind rage and hostility on his face before his fist came swinging to meet sharply with her nose.

"Man, what the hell?" Azimio yelled, just as Santana's "Jesus – FUCK!" rang out in the corridors, the sounds like a siren call, prompting several teachers to poke their heads out of their classes to see what the swearing was all about. Santana clutched her nose in her left hand, warm blood gushing into her mouth and seeping into the spaces between her fingers. Her eyes lifted to Karofsky, who was staring at her with a mixture of defiance and shock on his face, almost as though he couldn't quite believe that he'd hit a girl. When she glared at him, his lips thinned into an angry straight line.

"Santana! Dave! What's going on here?"

Santana almost rolled her eyes, because, _seriously_. What was it with Schuester and his trouble-radar?

"Brittany! Are you alright?" Santana did roll her eyes at that one. Leave it to a teacher to ask all the stupid questions.

"You better go now." Karofsky said coolly to her, moving slowly away as Schuester approached. "Go and hide behind big man Schuester like the scared, insecure girl you are. And take your fucking retard friend with you."

There was no time to think. Her foot rose in the air and executed a perfectly aimed kick towards his groin, knocking the wind out of him, leaving him howling, "shiiiitt…"

"Santana!" Schuester cried out, the disappointment dripping wretchedly from three syllables.

She probably was going to get detention for that, but she couldn't give a rat's ass, hell, she would do it all over again if she could, because the motherfucker deserved it, the slimy little douche had it coming to him, the stupid bastard… _What the fuck?_

Santana turned around to look at Brittany with wide, uncertain eyes. Brittany, who was clutching her stomach with both hands, bent towards the ground, laughing like she had just heard the world's greatest joke. Laughing as though her life depended on it, the sound painfully mirthless and tortured, ringing in the quiet hallways and bouncing off the walls.

Santana just stared in alarm, her own blood dripping past her fingers to the floor while Karofsky continued to moan. And Brittany laughed on, falling to her knees. Santana came closer slowly, before crouching low before the other girl. She was at a fucking terrifying loss at what to do. Schuester arrived at her shoulder, looking down at Brittany with worried eyes.

"Brittany," he said, "Brittany, calm down." He turned to Santana and muttered, "I'm going to go and call Emma, okay? I need you to stay here with her," to which the smaller girl nodded brusquely. He took off for the guidance counselor's office quickly.

"Oh… oh God," the blonde croaked, sudden tears mixing with the remaining stains on her face. She gasped as the tears began to overpower her laughter, until there was nothing but broken sobs resounding in the hallways, harsh and desperate. "Oh God."

Santana reached forward with her free hand, reaching for the other girl. She had no idea what it was she was doing, but it made more sense than sitting around and doing nothing. Except –

"No." Brittany blurted out, avoiding her touch, shaking her head adamantly even as their eyes met. Santana felt a shiver sweep across her. "Don't." Brittany's face twisted. "Don't. You don't get to help. You don't get to comfort me. You can't."

The words stung like fresh punctures on her face. Santana didn't know what to say.

"I…I'm angry at you." The other girl confessed, looking away. She let out a dry laugh that sounded like a million sighs. "Sometimes I hate you so much."

Santana swallowed, the combination of blood and saliva in her mouth making her feel faintly nauseous. Dropping her gaze, she whispered, "I know."

It was stunning to watch Brittany explode. Caught off guard, Santana found herself being pushed back fiercely when Brittany snapped, "NO! No, you don't. You don't know. None of you know. You don't know, okay? Not one bit." Her voice broke and she began to cry some more, her mouth still moving as though she were desperately trying to get words out. When she finally did, the words were shaking, her voice strained and tiny. "I lost everything."

Santana felt the swell of tears in her own eyes, just as Schuester arrived with Pilsbury. Santana watched as they helped the blonde get on her feet, preparing to lead her away.

There were so many things Santana felt she could have said then. She could have admitted _I once lost everything, too. I know how that feels. I can't even remember what it means to really have anything, _or maybe even confessed _It's my fucking fault. You should lock me away._ But in the end, she settled for touching Brittany's arm gently as Schuester began to pull her away. Forcing the words through the lump in her throat, she murmured with surprising sincerity, "I'm sorry, Brittany."

She didn't expect any kind of acknowledgement of her half-assed apology. She thought the blonde was going to shake her off, ignore her and walk away. She thought that maybe the blonde would even return to hit her, or something equally hostile and violent.

What she didn't expect was for the blonde to turn around and look at her, her teary eyes dark blue and piercing. They stared at each other unblinkingly for what felt like an eternity, even the blonde moved farther and farther away. Just as she was about to disappear around a corner, Brittany opened her mouth and said in a hoarse voice, "I know, Santana."

* * *

><p>She was sitting on the football field bleachers when Schuester suddenly appeared out of nowhere, sitting in the bleacher behind her.<p>

"Hello, Santana."

She didn't bother verbally greeting him in return, nodding once instead.

He sighed. "I'm sorry about what happened earlier. Brittany's… in a difficult place right now." He waited for her to reply, but she kept her mouth shut. "And I hate to have to do this, but…"

"So what's my punishment?" She interrupted brashly, not interested in hearing his ridiculous voice for much longer. "My punishment for standing up for someone who couldn't really stand up for herself? For taking down one of the biggest fucking bullies in McKinley history?" She turned to face him, her eyes furious. He swallowed once.

"I talked Figgins out of suspending you." He responded, his eyes boring into hers. "That's the standard response for violence on campus. It's what Karofsky's getting. Three days. And Azimio's going to be receiving detention for the next week."

Santana shook her head. "I don't care what they got, Schuester. Whatever it is, it isn't enough to change anything around here."

"I know that." Schuester admitted softly. "But that's the best we can do, Santana. Look. I managed to ask Principal Figgins not to give you the same treatment, but you've got to meet me halfway here."

"Fine." She rolled her eyes, looking away pointedly. "What is it this time? Detention for six weeks? Mandatory anger management sessions? Janitor hours?"

"Principal Figgins thinks that detention is way too good for you."

Santana snorted. "No kidding."

"And we can't require you to take anger management sessions. Though I don't think that's such a bad idea. It might help fix whatever..." He paused, struggling for the proper word, "issues you have going on."

"Whatever."

"And janitor hours–"

"Look," Santana snapped, turning to look at him, "can you just get on with it?"

He sighed again. "Tutoring." When she gaped at him, he added, "In Spanish, where you're more than a natural."

"You've got to be shitting–"

"I'm not finished."

Santana gritted her teeth together, reminding herself it was way better than having to explain a suspension to her Abuela. "What more is there?"

He hesitated. "Figgins also agreed it might help for you to engage in some sort of… uh, extra-curricular activity." Her eyes widened in horror. _Fucking no._ "We both thought giving you something to spend your time and effort in might help you release all your pent-up aggression. So, effective tomorrow, you're going to have to start… attending the Glee club."

She stared at him disbelievingly, while he rose to his feet.

"Here." He handed her a sheet of tissue paper. "You better wipe that blood off your face."

* * *

><p>The fucking <em>Glee club.<em> What the hell was wrong with the world? Did they really think putting her with those bunch of weirdoes was going to make her a better person? _Christ._

It was afternoon. Santana was leaning on the hood of Puck's beat-up car, digging her foot into the ground just to watch the dust rise and fly. When she saw him approaching, sweating from his football practice, she straightened automatically.

"Puckerman." She acknowledged icily, folding her arms across her chest

He stared at her, his eyes unsure. "What do you want?"

_Right._ Straight to business then. "I'm sure you've heard about your two dumb jocks friends this morning."

Puck's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, so? I had nothing to do with that."

Santana sneered. "If you did, I'd have gotten to you, too." His jaw tightened at the thinly-veiled threat. "Whatever. I have a message for the rest of the jock block, Puckerman, and I need you to spread the word: back the fuck off."

He frowned, confusion in his eyes. "What?"

She rolled her eyes. "Your little dumb jock friends. Tell them to back off the new blondie, alright?"

Puck looked at with cool disbelief. "What's it to you, Lopez? You don't care about anyone but yourself, remember?" She could hear the biting resentment in his voice, and she tried to ignore the way it managed to hurt somehow. After all, before all this shit, he was the one person she faintly considered a friend.

"Puck," He flinched at the startling softness in her voice. He's never heard her sound so tired before. "Puck, it's her."

"What?" He stared at her blankly.

"Jeez, Puck. The shit with Jesse. It's her."

Comprehension dawned on his face. "You sure?"

"I'm always sure." She snapped, annoyed again. "So tell your stupid teammates to drop it, alright? She's not fucking dumb."

She didn't bother to wait for a response. Pushing herself off the hood of his car, she began to walk away. A few feet away, however, she turned to say once, "And, Puck?" She inhaled deeply. "Don't tell Jesse."

She waited for him to nod once. When he did, she began to move away again, but he stopped her with a call of, "Hey, Lopez, are we good?"

She turned to look at him silently, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, we…we're good. But if anyone on the team does anything stupid to her, its fucking war, you got that?"

He pushed his hands into his pockets, hesitating. "Why do you care so much?"

_We should care, we're the reason she's so fucked up._

"Lopez?"

She shrugged, feeling suddenly heavy as she turned away. "I don't know."


	11. Young Folks

**Young Folks**

"Hello, Brittany. How are you feeling today?"

Sitting low on the chair in front of Emma's desk, Brittany kept her eyes glued to the bookshelf behind the guidance counselor when she muttered, "I'm okay." She paused because her throat hurt. Swallowing, she added, like an afterthought, "I guess."

It was a lie, of course. She didn't need to guess. She wasn't okay, not in the slightest. She felt sticky all the way down to her underwear, and the sensation made her want to squirm. But she couldn't. There was a tiredness flowing in her veins that made any kind of movement painful to even think about.

"Do you want to tell me about what happened earlier?"

Brittany closed her eyes, wishing it would be enough to make her forget. But the images only seemed clearer when her eyes weren't open: the slow dripping of cold ice running down over her face, the big, burly jock groaning with both hands covered over his crotch, the blood seeping through Santana's fingers and falling brilliant red spots on the floor, and deep, dark eyes speaking volumes.

Brittany almost didn't hear Emma when she sighed, then added, "Just try, Brittany. You never know. Talking about it… might really help."

Tonelessly, Brittany answered, "I was just slushied. That's all."

"By Dave Karofsky and Azimio?"

The tiredness was beginning to make her feel really sleepy. "Yeah."

"Okay." There was a pause. "What about Santana Lopez?"

Brittany felt her eyes snap open on their own accord, her mind abruptly awake and alert. She raised herself on the chair until she was sitting straight, then said cautiously, "What about her?"

Emma watched her with intrigued eyes. "Well, for starters, what was she doing there?"

The dryness in her throat was beginning to itch. Swallowing, she shrugged. "She… stuck up for me."

The guidance counselor's expression was difficult to do read. "Why do you think she did that?"

Brittany felt herself frowning, annoyance suddenly punching into her system as barely-thought-out words left her mouth. "I don't know, why don't you ask her?"

Emma didn't bat an eye. Leaning forward, she said, "I want to know what you think, Brittany."

Brittany looked away. "I don't know what I think." _Liar,_ her mind thought traitorously. _You don't get to help,_ her own voice echoed in her mind. _You don't get to comfort me._ She could see Santana's face crumpling under the weight of her words. _You can't._

Undeterred, and obviously quite oblivious to Brittany's absent mind, the other woman tried another approach. "Well, how did it make you feel then? Her sticking up for you."

Brittany felt a lump in her throat. "I... I don't know. A lot of things." She admitted, her voice tiny. "And a lot of mad, I think." _Sometimes I hate you so much._ She swallowed. "But mostly sad." _I lost everything._

When Emma spoke again, her voice was soft. "Why does it made you feel sad?"

For a split second, Brittany really felt like telling her. _I met Santana,_ she wanted to say, _on the night of the fire. She pulled my sister out of the fire and threw us both out a window, but… I was the only one who ended up surviving._

She wanted to say it. And she almost did. But when she looked back at Emma and stared right into her eyes, she suddenly heard it again, as though it was being whispered straight into her ears.

_I'm sorry, Brittany._

Brittany swallowed. "I just, I don't like being bullied, I guess. And not, you know, standing up for myself, or something."

She was worried that Emma wasn't going to let go of it so easily. Maybe she would force Brittany to explain more. To expound on that hanging _or something_.

But much to her surprise, the guidance counselor just smiled and said, "Well, I know this group of really wonderful kids who might be able to teach you a thing or two about standing up for yourself. And I hear they'd love to have you with them."

* * *

><p>That day after school, when Brittany walked into William and Emma's apartment, she stood in their living for a long moment and tried to collect the thoughts pooling at her feet. It almost felt like the little pieces of her – or the <em>her<em> that she used to be – were really gone now, like the New Brittany had completely obliterated the old one.

It sucked, really. So bad. Feeling like a lingering shadow that remained after the most important parts of her had left.

Dragging her feet forward, she made her way to the room they called hers. She closed the door behind her and sank down its length, her back scraping uncomfortably on the surface. She stayed unmoving for a long moment, before pushing forward and crawling on all fours towards the space under the bed.

When Dr. Burton had asked her what she wanted to do with the bodies, all she felt like doing was throwing up until there was nothing left of her insides. Sadly though, even after she had nothing else to puke, everything inside was still intact. So came the need for a decision.

She knew her mother wouldn't have wanted to be buried. Long before any of this had happened, her mother always used to joke that if anything were to ever happen to her, she wanted to be cremated so her ashes could be brought to all the places she hadn't been able to go to in her lifetime.

The discussion had turned serious when Brittany's father died. _I don't want to be stuck in one place forever,_ she told Brittany on the night of the funeral, holding her and her sister close in a tight embrace. _Okay, Brittany? I want you to remember this, for when you're older. I want to be free. I don't want to be in one place forever._

Brittany reached under the bed, her hands searching until they closed around the objects she was looking for – the urns. She could feel her heart trembling in her chest, the air shaking in her mouth, and suddenly felt weak and lightheaded.

She didn't really know what Natalie had wanted. After all, it was something they had never talked about, a possibility they had never – not once – bothered to bring up. So she just decided for the same fate for both their remains.

Brittany's fingers traced over the cool surface of the containers, but she didn't want to take them out. She didn't think she would be able to handle it. On the first night in that very apartment, it had been so unbearable to take them away from her sight, as though tearing her gaze away meant leaving them forever. It was all she had left of them, after all. She didn't even have a single damn picture.

Eventually, however, that insane fear had transformed into an irresistible urge to not see them at all, because seeing just hurt way too much. It was too strong a reminder.

"Hey, mom." Brittany heard herself whisper, the words causing a powerful wave of tears to prick her eyes. "Hey, Nat." The words barely managed to get past the giant lump lodged in her throat. She choked on the syllables. "I'm so lost." Her fingers clung tightly to the surface, desperately like a grasp on a lifeline, but she willed herself not to pull them out. "I don't know who I am anymore." Her voice broke. Distantly, she could hear the front door open, William's voice alternating with Emma's as they conversed. She pushed herself deeper under the bed then, hiding in the dark, delving as far into the narrow space as she was willing to go.

When the voices quieted and the sounds moved to the kitchen, Brittany closed her eyes against the tears.

"I miss you so much."

* * *

><p>When she woke up the next morning, her muscles felt sore from her awkward position from the night before. She stood up slowly and shook her upper extremities gingerly, wincing at the aches. Her arms were numbed and heavy, her head a mighty weight on her shoulders. When she had regained enough feeling in her body she eased herself slowly unto the bed, her arms wrapping around the pillow.<p>

All she wanted to do was go to sleep all day long. That was her plan. But of course, the universe had other plans.

"Good Morning, Brittany. Are you up yet? It's time for breakfast."

_Go away,_ she wanted to snap, but her throat felt too closed up for words to leave properly. Sighing, she raised her body of the bed and made her way to the bathroom.

She could pretend she was someone else for awhile under the hot stream of water.

* * *

><p>Unpleasant was too kind a word to describe breakfast.<p>

Both Emma and William kept casting sneaky glances in her direction throughout the entire ordeal, as though they were anticipating the next moment when Brittany would explode into a fit of tears. She tried to ignore their looks and focus on shoving something into her empty stomach, but her appetite was becoming more and more nonexistent with each passing second.

She set her fork down just as someone knocked on the front door.

William's head shot up. "That must be them." He said from the corner of his mouth, glancing at Emma. "I'll get it."

Brittany watched him stand, and make his way towards the living room briskly. She listened to the sound of the doorknob being unlocked, and the door swinging open. She turned to Emma. "Who's 'they'?"

"Hey, Brittany!"

Brittany turned around in time to see a grinning Mike Chang slide into the kitchen, followed closely by a Finn and Quinn. Bursting at the seams with untapped energy, he waved enthusiastically at Emma. "Hey, Ms. P!"

"Good morning, Mike." Emma greeted back, smiling at the other two members of the Glee club. "Glad to see you three could make it."

"Awww, it's no sweat." The Asian smiled. "Love to help." He bounced on the balls of his feet excitedly, smiling at Brittany. "Ready to head to school?"

Brittany stared in confusion at the three. "What's going on?"

"I hope you don't mind, Brittany." William said, entering the room behind the other teenagers. "But I asked some of the Glee kids to swing by to pick you up for school this morning."

For a split second, it was like everyone was holding their breath; waiting for some kind of radical reaction she had no intention of expressing. She looked from Emma to William, then to Mike, his expression hopeful. "Oh." Brittany said slowly, before shrugging. "Well. Okay."

William beamed.

* * *

><p>Brittany didn't know why she felt so nervous about being in a car that Finn was driving.<p>

It wasn't that he was a bad driver. In fact, he seemed quite able at the task. It's just that with Mike talking to him relentlessly about some football tactic they were supposed to be trying out that day, Finn's hands would leave the steering wheel an average of three times per minute just so he could make several elaborate hand gestures in the air, tracing shapes in the space around him enthusiastically. Brittany watched nervously every single time he did.

It's not she was too concerned about her life. There was more of her that didn't care to live, a stark contrast to the almost insignificant bits of her still urged her to keep pushing on. If she died today, it didn't really seem to matter that much. She would be leaving nothing, and there was no one she could hurt by leaving them behind.

But there was something annoying about the idea of Finn Hudson being the death of her.

Quinn didn't really help much. She seemed nice enough, but Brittany wasn't sure what to make of her. She was either completely oblivious to Brittany's discomfort, or was so used to having people act uncomfortably around her to become so indifferent about it. Brittany wasn't sure which it was.

Another thing she couldn't really understand was why the cheerleader was talking about her potential plans for junior prom, when that was months and months away. Life was unpredictable, and time was never promised; what was the point in making plans for the far, far future? Wasn't it difficult enough to try and live through one day?

"With Finn as my running mate, it's a done deal. No one can top the star of the football team and his head Cheerio girlfriend."

Then again, Brittany reminded herself, Quinn was a cheerleader. Most of them at McKinley seemed to feel like they had the world made out for them.

* * *

><p>Brittany almost sighed with relief when they reached school, blurting out a quick thanks and dashing to her designated locker. Sure, the Glee club was nice, and they were sweet to try and make her feel like she belonged with them, but she was still on the fence with the whole thing. She still wasn't sure if she wanted to have friends.<p>

"Good morning, Brittany! I hope you had a wonderful trip with our fellow Gleeclubbers!"

They seemed to be insisting on it, though.

Brittany bit back a groan while she swung her locker door open. "Hi, Rachel."

"Brittany! You look fabulous this morning!"

She had to raise her eyebrows at that one. _Seriously?_ A quick glance reminded her she was wearing nothing but a faintly yellow v-neck shirt, with a pair of dark blue bootleg jeans. Sure, her sneakers still looked new, but it was hardly anything to be impressed about.

"Uh, thanks, Kurt."

The boy beamed. Brittany looked over his outfit, trying to form coherent words other than, _oh, wow, what do you call that?_ "You look, great, too."

Kurt's smile widened. "Of course I do."

Brittany didn't know what to say to that, so she just turned her attention back to her opened locker. What did she need again? "I guess I'll see you guys in Spanish."

She saw Rachel shaking her head in her peripheral vision. "That would be unnecessary. We don't mind waiting for you."

"Right." Brittany muttered, trying not to grit her teeth. _Notebook. You need your notebook._ She pulled out the necessary object, closing the door with a little bit more force than necessary when the bell rang. "Let's go then."

She turned her body to follow Rachel and Kurt as they led the path down the hallway, but when Brittany raised her head, she found herself looking down the long row of lockers, straight into the face of a person already staring at her. It didn't take a nanosecond for her feet to stop working.

"Brittany?"

Rachel's voice sounded muted, like she was calling to her from a far, far distance. In fact, all sound seemed warped for a split second. Everything sounded wildly distorted for a split second, like different signals clashing together to form something chaotically incoherent; it was almost as jarring as the mad beating of her heart.

And Santana just continued staring straight at her, her entire body angled towards Brittany, her hand unmoving inside her locker. Her expression was carefully controlled, void of any kind of emotion whatsoever, but her unblinking eyes said more than enough.

_I'm sorry, Brittany._

Brittany swallowed, and instantly the spell broke.

The sound suddenly thinned in her ears. She felt someone's hand – Rachel's probably – close wrap around her arm, pulling. "Brittany, we can't be late."

Brittany broke her gaze away from Santana's, and glanced quickly at Rachel. The small brunette looked slightly frightened, and Brittany remembered quickly that she didn't really like Santana Lopez. But it was when she spared a glance at Kurt's intrigued expression that Brittany regained control over her lower muscles.

"Sorry." She muttered to Rachel, feeling heat creep over her cheeks. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she almost rammed straight into a mohawked figure moving the opposite direction. His letterman jacket made Brittany freeze all over again, remembering the incident just the day before.

But to her surprise, the boy stepped aside automatically. Brittany looked up at him, surprised. "My bad." He said, his eyes moving across her face critically, almost as if he was trying to memorize it. "Won't happen again." He moved away quickly then, rushing down the hallway towards his class. He paused, however, to toss a nod in Santana's direction.

"Lopez." He called out. She gave him a tiny salute when he passed her by, before shutting her locker quietly.

Brittany watched the exchange curiously, an odd feeling settling in the pit of her gut. It was the first time she had ever seen Santana interact with another student without being aggressive about it. Well. Except, maybe, for her. But did she really count?

Rachel started to pull her more insistently on her arm. "Brittany, we have to go."

She nodded absently. "Okay."

* * *

><p>She was utterly lost in Spanish. Never mind getting confused about conjugating verbs. She was lost in her own mind.<p>

* * *

><p>"So what exactly should I do?"<p>

The choir room was a lot bigger than she thought. There were a several chairs arranged neatly in rising levels on one corner, and a whole band adjacent to that. The band seemed quite wrapped up in their own world, never saying a word to anyone outside their little bubble. Brittany wondered if any of them were friends with the Glee club.

"You don't need to do anything." William reassured her, smiling. "You just need to take seat. The New Directions prepared something very special just for you today." He exchanged an excited smile with Rachel, who looked at the other members of the club before nodding once.

Finn launched automatically into a whistle. For a moment he just looked silly, whistling by himself, until Sam began to whistle along with him. Then Rachel smiled and sang along.

_"If I told you things I did before, told you how I used to be,_

_would you go along with someone like me?_

_If you knew my story word for word, had all of my history,_

_would you go along with someone like me?"_

She had to admit it. Rachel could sing. Really well.

_"I did before and had my share, it didn't lead nowhere._

_I would go along with someone like you._

_It doesn't matter what you did, who you were hanging with._

_We could stick around and see this night through."_

Finn didn't sound so bad, either. There was an odd rawness in his voice, and he made really funny expressions while singing, but he sounded okay.

_"And we don't care about the young folks_

_Talkin' 'bout the young style  
>And we don't care about the old folks<br>Talkin' 'bout the old style too  
>And we don't care about their own faults<br>Talkin' 'bout our own style  
>All we care 'bout is talking<br>Talking only me and you."_

The club sounded best when they were all singing together. They all had a light in their eyes that was easy for Brittany to envy; they all seemed to genuinely enjoy what they were doing. They continued with the song and even added a handful of really cute dance moves to it, jumping around the room without a care in the world.

When they finished, Brittany could see why they were so happy together. They just didn't give a damn about anything else whenever they were performing.

"Alright!" William called out as he began to applaud, grinning. Brittany gave a tiny smile and clapped along with him.

"That was so cool." She told Kurt when he bounded over. Mike let out a happy laugh.

"So?" Rachel asked excitedly. "Do you want to become part of the Glee club now?"

Brittany looked around her, at all the hopeful faces shining at her. She still had nagging doubts about it all, but it seemed impossible to turn them down. "Okay."

Rachel squealed, diving in to hug her tightly. Caught off guard, Brittany could only stand still while everyone gathered around her, making excited sounds of, "Yehey, new member!" and "Welcome to our family, Brittany!"

She didn't think it would be, but it was kind of a nice feeling. She looked up and saw William smiling proudly at her.

"Well, well, well." Everyone turned around to see Santana Lopez slowclapping by the door, a sneer set firmly on her face. "Isn't that sweet?"


	12. Help, I'm Alive

**Help, I'm Alive**

* * *

><p><em>"Yo no encendí sino un papel amargo."<em>

_Adioses, Pablo Neruda_

* * *

><p>It was all so freaking <em>stupid<em>.

There was something so unforgivably silly about how the Glee club looked like a bunch of whacked-out morons whenever they let themselves loose and did _that_. The ridiculous singing was bad enough, but to have to watch Hudson dance like a baboon whose backside was on fire? _Christ._ How could anyone sane be even the slightest bit willing to subject themselves to something as unbearable as that?

Santana snorted quietly to herself from her spot just outside the choir room door. Who was she to say any of them were sane to begin with? It wasn't so hard to imagine those kids as unbalanced loonies masquerading as an over-the-top musical ensemble.

Smiling sardonically, she began to create a check-list in her mind of all the appropriate adjectives to describe the overwhelmingly disgusting scene in front of her. Stupid? Her eyes ran over RuPaul's facial expression as she scrunched her face and closed her eyes, reaching a note that did not sound appropriate for the song at all. _Check._ Weird? There goes Male Asian sliding across the grand piano like some friction-defying freak. _Check._ Crazy? All she had to do was look at the sappy smile on Schuester's face. _Hell, yeah._

Stupid, weird, crazy. She would have stopped with those three words to complete her short list, but there was an unbearable tugging in the spot squeezed between her ribs, until she closed her eyes and finally let herself think it.

Happy?

_Almost painfully so._

It was a reality she could see quite clearly, even from far away. She watched the way they danced around each other, pointing at themselves whenever they sang 'young folks' and pointing towards Schuester as they yelled 'old folks.' He laughed good-naturedly, mouthing along with the words as the glee club sang them.

They sounded happy, too. She supposed that's all that really counted, with a club so popularly unpopular. Maybe that's why they were so unbreakable: they didn't give a flying fuck about what anyone else thought, because they were going to do what they wanted to do regardless.

They were happy, and for a tiny moment Santana forgot her list and let herself admit that it sucked, so fucking bad, that she could feel only the shadows of their happiness. It was surrounding her like a gas in the air, falling thick and heavy in the empty space around her, and all she wanted to be was immersed in it. But even if she could feel it floating around her tauntingly, always _right there_, it was never, ever quite within reach. Like maybe that feeling was never really hers for the taking.

_Fuck._ Santana looked away from the sight and swallowed through the lump that was beginning to burn in her throat. It didn't matter of Schuester required her to join in, or how involved he tried to get her into his little team. She just wasn't a piece that was meant to belong in their picture. She was never going to know what it felt like, to be happy the way they clearly were. All things considered, she probably didn't deserve to know what it meant to be happy at all.

When she heard the song approach a close, Santana looked back into the room, her gaze settling on the only student sitting. Brittany had a faint smile on her face – it was the first time Santana had ever seen her smile, and it made something in her stomach flip over unexpectedly in pleasant surprise – when she stood and clapped along with Schuester.

"That was so cool." Santana heard Brittany say to Paleface Hummel when he rushed over to her to hear her assessment. Chang, clearly hanging on to her ever word, laughed happily, his eyes shining excitedly.

"So?" The hobbit asked instantly, her loud voice typically demanding in her excitement. "Do you want to become part of the Glee club now?"

Santana felt her breath hitching, her entire body tensing in preparation for the answer. She wasn't sure what she wanted to hear exactly. She knew, somehow, that crazy or not, the Glee club would be smart choice for Brittany. They took care of their own and she needed to e around people who could do that.

But would it be smart to have them near each other, for a longer period of time than was absolutely necessary? After all, some part of her still felt that the best option was to avoid the whole situation completely, and walk away as soon as possible. But on the other hand… well, the other hand was a different matter completely.

"Okay."

Manhands Midget screamed, and launched herself straight into a hug Brittany obviously wasn't really ready for. It felt intrusive for her to watch, so she looked away. Watching Brittany get welcomed so eagerly made her feel emptier, somehow, if that were even possible. Just knowing that she wasn't going to get the same kind of welcome almost made her want to turn around and walk away, damn the consequences.

"Yehey, new member!" She heard Gay Number One squeal. Like a magnet, Santana felt her eyes moving back to watch, her throat tight. "Welcome to our family, Brittany!"

_Family._

The word twisted inside Santana's mind, the letters abandoning their loops and lines and twirling behind her eyelids. It was supposed to be one of those smiley, _I-feel-so-warm-and-bright-inside_ words. But it wasn't. All it did was leave the most bitter of tastes in Santana's mouth.

Her mind emptied for a quick moment, to be filled with images of a life that felt like it had been lived so long ago: her mother's ever elusive smile, her father's ever present glower. She knew she could try to soak herself in the remnants of all those broken memories, but try as she might, she could never really remember what it _felt_ like, to really belong to one. Maybe she'd never really learned.

And she didn't need to be a rocket scientist to realize that she definitely couldn't learn in this one. Sure, these Glee kids were weird in an we'll-take-all-we-can-get sort of way, but they weren't stupid; she was more than certain that none of them would want to be part of a family – any kind of family – that she was a part of. And she didn't blame them, either.

She smiled bitterly to herself. Way to go, Schuester, for thinking up the simplest punishment without even realizing how much it was going to fucking hurt.

But never mind. Who cared, right? Fuck it all.

"Well, well, well." It was almost comical, the ways their heads to turned to her simultaneously, eyes wide in surprise. Sneering like it was the only thing she'd ever learned to do in her life, she slowclapped exaggeratedly. "Isn't that sweet?"

Schuester's face fell like an apple surrendering to gravity. His lips closed in a tight line, a warning flashing in his eyes, but Santana ignored it.

"Such a touching, life-changing performance." Santana added, sarcasm dripping from every syllable like venom trickling down sharpened fangs. She walked further into the room, until she was almost at the center of it. It didn't really surprise her when the members backed away, but there was a twist in her gut when she saw the loathing flickering in most of their eyes. It had the most bizarre effect of internally hurting her and externally spurring her on.

"I mean, yeah. I have a whole new perspective in my life now." She waved her right arm exaggeratedly. "After all, before this day I never ever thought I would want to go _blind_, but after seeing Finnocence here dance with less fluidity that a leaping T-rex with an uncontrollable urge to use the toilet, I seriously considered gauging my eyes out on the spot."

Someone gasped. Hudson's entire face turned purple, and he stammered through tight lips, "Wh-what?"

"Oh, come on." Santana replied, rolling her eyes. She turned next to Miss Uptight Personified, smirking. "Really, Fabray, I thought you were supposed to be smart? What's the point of having a 4.0GPA when you settle for someone so… mediocre? I get it when he can't get Spanish, but the English vocabulary? Oh, wait." She faked a gasp. "I totally get it now. You wanted to be with someone so dumb, just so people could realize how truly smart you are, right?"

"Santana!" Schuester exclaimed, dismayed, but the bomb had already gone off. Too late to try and stop the explosion.

The cheerleader's jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing angrily. "Shut up, Lopez."

Santana raised an eyebrow, taking a closer step. "I'm sorry, I think I missed that. Mind saying it for me one more time?" When Fabray said nothing, Santana shook her head slowly. "I was wrong. Maybe you are as dumb as Hudson, after all. Match made in heaven. Yippee."

There was a sharp intake of breath. "You're being really, really rude." It was Gay Number Two, his bowtie just popping out of his multi-colored vest. He was glaring at Santana with his brows furrowed together, but he looked way too much like a character out of a badly drawn cartoon for her to take seriously.

"Yeah, well. I guess that's what happens after Lady Hobbit here makes sounds like a hyena, and turns an unbearable song even more insufferable."

"Santana!" Schuester yelled loudly. "That's enough!"

Santana shrugged, then clamped her lips tight together. With one hand, she pretended to zip them together, tossing the imaginary key high up in the air. She put on her most condescending smile, then marched to the back of the room, where the seats were arranged in messy rows. Ignoring the stares settled on her, she dropped herself unto a seat, crossing her legs automatically.

Of course, Manhands would speak first, though in tones significantly hushed – really, Santana didn't know it was possible for the hobbit to talk without yelling like she was trapped alone in the bottom of a well.

"Mr. Schuester, what is that – _she_ – doing here?"

_Fascinating,_ Santana wanted to quip. _I've never been reduced to a _'that'_ before._

Everyone turned to face Schuester, who clearly looked like he wasn't entirely sure what the most appropriate response was. After a tense moment, he decided to ignore the question to reply instead, "She's going to be joining us until Sectionals."

"Oh, God." Paleface Hummel groaned, rolling his eyes. "Kill me now."

_That wish,_ Santana thought to herself as her eyes glanced involuntarily at the taller blonde, who was staring at her with a slight frown on her face, _is mutual._

* * *

><p>Schuester tried to require her to sing a song, but she refused. Well, she didn't refuse as much as she glared stonily at him when he asked, until he finally held up his hands in surrender and decided to move on.<p>

Needless to say, everyone expected it. From her place in the back she watched them swap dark glances with each other, no one daring to look over their shoulder to the spot where she sat unmovingly. The only person who had, in fact, dared to look at her since they all decided to sit was Brittany, but she had only glanced once, and didn't bother to look again.

Maybe the avoidance thing wouldn't be so hard, after all.

* * *

><p>Scratch that thought. It was going to be hard.<p>

When Schuester finally dismissed the club, almost everyone shuffled out instantly, already talking in hushed voices over what she expected was the most scandalous thing to happen to the club, ever. She was already halfway out of her seat, ready to leap out of the door like a bird finally finding an opportunity to escape from the confines of a wretched cage. But before she could, a soft voice called out to her, "Wait."

Her teeth clamp together on pure instinct, her mind shutting down momentarily, while her body rocked backwards to fall back into the waiting chair. _Fuck._

She wanted to be able to ignore it. She wanted to be able to walk out of the room without a backward glance, but the guilt – the deeply-rooted, unquenchable guilt – made it impossible to do something so heartless.

"Uhm, I'm going to stay for a little while." She heard Brittany muttering to the Asian boy, who was lingering by her chair, two rows in front of Santana's. He was obviously waiting. Santana turned to look just in time to see the hesitation in his eyes. When he met her gaze, she could see the concern all over his face. Obviously he could still remember the incident in the lab.

"Are you sure?" He said in a low voice, looking back at Brittany. "I mean, I can wait right here. Mr. Schue said you're carpooling with us."

When the blonde spoke again, her voice sounded different – like she was tired. "I'll be fine. I can walk."

He still looked doubtful, so Santana exhaled slowly and loudly, hoping he would take the hint and just… disappear. He glanced one last time at Santana, then shrugged and said, "If you're sure, Brittany. I'll see you… on Monday, okay?"

All the blonde did was nod, dropping her gaze to the ground. Mike waited just a second longer, before turning around quietly and slowly walking out the door.

With the entire club gone, all that was left was a faintly eerie silence settling heavily on the empty room. It made a slow shiver run down Santana's spine. Eyes planted on Brittany's back, she held her breath, listening to the nearly deafening beat of her heart against her chest, loud like a protest and strong like a gunshot. She didn't know what she was waiting for, but she waited, anyway.

It didn't take that long.

"Hi." Brittany said, her voice incredibly soft and even.

Santana inhaled deeply, feeling surprisingly and uncharacteristically calm. "Hi."


	13. Guns Out

_I'm just gonna say it. Hollywood's version of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo is really disappointing._

_Haha. Anyway, once again thanks for the response for the previous chapter. I'm beginning to have difficulty with the pacing of the story – I know you guys must be frustrated that at Chapter 12, they're still starting at "Hi." I know, the set-up seems to be taking so, so long. But I'm working on it._

_Forgot to mention that the previous chapter was titled after the Metric song._

_This is tragically short, but I wanted to update before I got swamped by schoolwork._

* * *

><p><strong>Guns Out<strong>

* * *

><p>"Hi."<p>

Brittany waited, almost breathlessly, for it to come: a faint flicker of fury, a pang of painful heartache, a burst of bitter regret in her mouth. Head bent down and lips silent, she waited for her body's reaction, half-expecting strong surges of anger, or hatred, or misery. Something. Anything.

But nothing came. All that existed was the lingering silence of the empty choir room, and the two people sitting a few meters away from each other, divided by a universe of unspoken words.

Brittany cleared her throat, raising her head and fixing her gaze on a point on the whiteboard of the room, where the words _Young Folks_ were written in barely legible hand-writing.

She didn't really know what it was she wanted to say. In fact, she wasn't even sure why she was still here. The other girl's behavior during the entire duration of the club meeting was more than enough to make her realize that Santana's harsh, merciless and demeaning attitude made her the kind of person people didn't wanted to be around – and, less obviously, that Santana just wasn't the kind of person who wanted to keep people around.

Old Brittany would have taken the hint, bowed her head in willing surrender, and disappeared off with Mike Chang. She would have gotten into Finn Hudson's car without any worries, and thrown herself willingly into a mindless conversation of silk and taffetas with Quinn Fabray.

But New Brittany couldn't do any of that. The entire illusion of a carefree youth had been shattered beyond repair. That seemed to be one thing she and Santana Lopez had in common, and whether it was sane or not, Brittany couldn't help but wonder what it had taken for the other girl to become the way she was. If, for Brittany, the change happened after something as horrible as losing her family, what was it for Santana?

"So…" Brittany trailed off. _Run,_ the last sane bit of her mind pleaded. "We… never actually really met." She said instead, the words sounding weak and altogether rather anticlimactic to her own ears.

The sentence hung heavily in the air between them, like a sword dangling by the finest of threads. The urge to turn around and look the other girl in the eye was beginning to creep into Brittany's body, but she resisted. It might be easier to talk if they didn't really see each other.

The other girl sighed. It sounded like resignation. "Santana Lopez."

Brittany nodded slowly to herself, feeling oddly relieved. She didn't realize part of her expected Santana to scoff and walk away. "Brittany Pierce." There was another beat in the conversation, and Brittany swallowed to moisten her dry throat. Then she added, in a low, hoarse voice, "You know… you never did answer my question."

"What question?"

Brittany closed her eyes momentarily, and inhaled slowly. For a moment that was so crucial, the entire thing felt so simple. Too simple. "Why did you save me?"

Santana's breath hitched, and in the slow silence of the choir room, the sound was especially sharp and clear. Brittany opened her eyes and waited. It was another long moment before the other girl murmured something that sounded distinctly like "screaming."

"What?" Brittany turned her head slightly to the side.

"I…" It sounded like Santana was shaking her head. Then she sighed again, frustrated. "I just. I needed to." She said it almost soundlessly, and in an odd way Brittany felt the words more than she heard them.

Brittany furrows her brows. _Needed to? _"What's that supposed to mean?"

There was another silence, before Santana sighed and replied in a hard voice, "Look, I don't know, okay? I can't really… explain… what happened. I just… you were screaming. I couldn't… do nothing."

She didn't even realize that she'd curled her fingers into fists, until her nails were leaving deep indents into the skin of her palm. The atmosphere felt different all of a sudden, like all the quiet had been sucked out, to be replaced by tension so heavy Brittany could feel it weighing down on her body. "Well." Brittany said, her voice low and even. The words were leaving her mouth before she could stop them. "I hope you don't mind if I'm not going to thank you."

"Fuck." Santana's response was automatic, her voice almost harsh. "I don't want you to, okay?" Her sudden anger was surprising. "I get that I'm the fucking villain here." Brittany raised her eyebrows. That certainly wasn't what she meant – at least, not really. "But it's not like I'm looking for your gratitude here." She stopped and inhaled deeply. When she spoke again, her voice was softened. "I don't want you to thank me. I wouldn't either if I were you."

Brittany breathed in slowly, staying silent.

"And…" Santana sounded surprisingly tiny and broken. It was almost amazing, how the emotions in her voice were shifting so rapidly from one to another. Now her voice was lowered to a whisper. "I meant it." She swallowed. "What I said. I meant it. I am sorry."

The tightening of her body made it difficult for her to breath. Brittany could feel her eyes watering, but she blinked them away. She shrugged once, trying not to choke on the overwhelming sadness. "Yeah, well. Me, too."

"I just..." Santana struggled with the words almost like she was wrestling with them, knocking them to the ground and forcing them out. "I didn't… I didn't know…"

The other girl fell silent, and Brittany wiped a lone tear away. She hesitated before saying sadly, "But it doesn't really matter, does it? I mean, it's done. It's over." _They're dead._

Santana made an odd noise. "What…what can I do to make it easier?" Her voice was thick with emotion. "Do you want me to…? I mean…I could stay away." There was a pause. "If you want me to."

Brittany shook her head. "Wouldn't make a difference." There was nothing in this world that anyone could do to make anything feel even vaguely easier. She knew that much.

"I'm sorry."

She finally gave in to the urge, and turned her entire head around so she could see the other girl completely. Santana was already looking at her, and their gazes met and locked together. It was all in her eyes, Brittany realized, where you could really _see_ her. Santana could walk around the entire world smirking and sneering and shooting people down with unrelentingly vicious, vicious words, but… her eyes told a different kind of story.

At the moment they were veiled by a thick curtain of unshed tears, but behind that Brittany could see the pained and haunted look. She wondered if that was what she looked like, too –tired and lost and lonely and sad.

They stared at each other unblinkingly for what seemed like an eternity. Then Brittany heard herself asking, "Why didn't you want to sing?"

Santana's eyebrows rose in surprise at the abrupt shift in subject. She blinked, the tears receding. "I-I… what?"

"Why didn't want to sing?"

"Why didn't you?" Santana sounded just as confused as Brittany felt. Truth be told, she didn't think that she really want to know, but the question had slipped out before she could even think twice.

Brittany shrugged in response, shifting her entire body around. "I didn't know we were supposed to."

Santana looked at her oddly for a moment, then admitted quietly, "I don't like singing." Brittany noticed that her eyes turned darker when she said it, narrowing ever so slightly.

"Why not?"

She hesitated. Her voice was distant when she spoke again. "Reminds me of someone."

It was obvious that she wasn't really willing to add anymore to that. Smiling mirthlessly, Brittany replied, "Well, I know what that feels like."

Santana shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry." She mumbled.

"Yeah, I know. I just wish it could change things."

Santana looked away. "You should probably go." She whispered. "Before they… assume that I've done something to hurt you."

Brittany felt herself frowning. "You really think they'd think that?"

Black eyes snapped back to blue. "Manhands already refers to me as an inanimate object. Would it be so hard to believe they think the worse of me?"

"Well, maybe it wouldn't be that bad if you weren't so mean to them." Brittany pointed out softly.

Santana snorted. "Wow, unsolicited advice."

"You could call it that."

The other girl shook her head, sneering as she quoted, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, "I hope you don't mind if I'm not going to thank you."

Brittany shrugged, looked away, and said nothing. After a long moment, she heard Santana  
>sigh, "I'm sorry. That was rude." Brittany looked back at her, watching black eyes soften apologetically. "It's just… reflex, I guess." She paused. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something." She cleared her throat. "Why didn't you–"<p>

Footsteps began to echo from the hallway. Brittany turned around to face the door, just in time to see the mohawked boy from earlier stick his head into the choir room and call out, "Jesus, I heard a rumor going around that Santana Lopez finally lost it and decided to join the freaking Social Suicide Circle. Please tell me it was a fucking joke."

His eyes landed on Santana, a smirk on his face, before his gaze slipped and found Brittany. His eyes widened comically. "Oh shit." He muttered abruptly, standing straight as the expression slid off his face. "Sorry."

Brittany heard Santana sigh wearily. "Brittany," she began, "Puck. Puck, Brittany."

The mohawked boy gave a slight nod. "Hey." His voice was cautious.

"Hi." Brittany waved politely.

He swallowed awkwardly, glancing up at Santana. "Uhm…"

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, the blonde stood up, reaching for her bag. "Well, I should go." She turned to look back at Santana. "It's a long walk."

Santana frowned. "Are you sure? I'm sure Puck can drive you to–"

"Mr. Schuester's place?" Brittany interrupted, chuckling. She shook her head. "Nah, it's okay. I can walk. It will help clear my head out, anyway."

Santana's jaw tensed, but she nodded. "Okay."

"Okay." Brittany echoed, swinging her bag over her shoulders and heading for the door. "I'll see you around, Santana." She glanced at the boy. "Puck."

"Bye." She heard Santana call out, her voice small.


	14. Swallowed by the Sea

**Swallowed in the Sea**

* * *

><p>"<em>Who here would chose to walk in those shoes? Even you can't."<em>

_What Do You Want, Gotye_

* * *

><p>As soon as Brittany's footsteps faded in the distance, Puck rounded on Santana, his eyebrows raised. "You didn't tell me you were getting chummy with new Blondie, Lopez."<p>

Something bristled in Santana, and she shot his a brief glare. "She's got a name, Puckerman. Better start using it."

He snorted, leaning against the doorframe, locking his fingers behind his head leisurely. "And why would I do that? It's not like we're gonna be friends anytime soon. That shit would be fucking complicated." He paused, his expression transforming, a hardness creeping into his dark eyes. "You didn't tell her anything, did you? 'Cause Jesse would totally flip shit if–"

"I didn't." Santana interrupted forcefully, her voice tight. "'Course not." And because she felt like she needed to say it, she added, "But not because of Jesse." Puck raised a questioning eyebrow, and Santana rolled her eyes in response. "Jesse could go fuck himself, for all I care."

Puck smirked nastily, his grim expression switching to a humorous one so rapidly, it reminded Santana of a light switch being flipped. "He's a big boy, S. I'm sure he already does."

She scrunched her nose in disgust, while he chuckled lowly. Standing up, she heaved her bag off the floor, making her way towards the door. She swallowed past the tightness in her throat as they left the choir room, feeling as though she was pulling herself away from physical reminders of the conversation still lingering in her mind. "Let's get out of this shit hole."

He nodded brusquely, leading her through the hallways silently. They were just about to make the turn closer towards the exits when a voice called, "Santana!"

Santana halted, and turned slowly, Schuester coming into view. He walked quickly towards them, a red ballpoint pen in his right hand, and several papers clutched in his left. "I'm glad I caught you before you left." He said hurriedly. "I've just finished checking several exercises from my Spanish classes. I've decided who you're going to start tutoring."

He looked over her shoulder at Puck. "And I've decided who's going to start tutoring you, Puck. Your results are…" He coughed slightly, and Santana smirked. "Let's just say you still need a lot of work." Puck looked mildly sheepish, but he shrugged as nonchalantly as possible.

"So?" Santana asked, raising an eyebrow. "Who's the unlucky soul?"

Schuester gave her a reproachful look, before checking something on one the papers he was holding. "Actually, there are two people who are going to be under you, Santana." He looked at her quickly. "And they both severely need your help."

Santana sighed, feeling impatient. "Seriously, just tell me already."

"Finn Hudson." Santana groaned, while Puck sniggered from behind her. Even Schuester had the decency to look vaguely apologetic; everyone knew how hard it was to teach the Giant anything. "And Brittany Pierce."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Santana, her eyes widening almost comically. She felt panic shooting into her chest. "Wh-what?" She stuttered out breathlessly. Sure, maybe they finally had their first conversation, but things still felt weird between the two of them. Santana wasn't sure being around each other was going to help alleviate the tension at all.

Schuester didn't seem to hear her. "Puckerman, you're going to be tutored by Quinn Fabray." Puck whistled lowly. "And that's about it."

"Wait," Santana blurted out, hardly believing it. What the fuck was it with her luck? Did the universe like playing screw-up with her life? "You've got to be shitting me."

"Language." The teacher admonished, his face disapproving.

"Whatever," Santana snapped. "Are you serious? _Brittany?_ Brittany as in new Blondie?"

"'New Blondie'?" Schuester echoed in a disbelieving tone. He shook his head, sighing. "Is that going to be a problem?"

_Hell yes,_ Santana wanted to retort. _It's going to be a fucking problem._ "I'll take Puck." She said instead, her tone nearly demanding. "I'll take Puck, and Fabray can have Brittany."

Schuester looked at her steadily. When he spoke, his voice was steady, "I don't know what your problem is with Brittany, Santana–"

"–I don't have a prob–"

"–but this isn't your decision to make." He continued in a loud voice, talking over Santana. "It wouldn't be productive to put Puck with you." He looked her squarely in the eye, crossing his arms awkwardly, the papers crumpling slightly. "Besides, I know what you did for Brittany."

Santana felt her blood run cold. _Wait,_ she thought, _what?_ She heard Puck shifting behind her. "What do you mean?" She asked in a near whisper, her mind chanting _shit shit shit_.

Schuester raised an eyebrow. "Sticking up for her against Karofsky and Azimio?" He said slowly. Santana exhaled slowly in relief, while he continued. "I was right there. I've never seen you defend anyone before," he smiled gently, "but you did for her."

She tried to shake her head. "Yeah, okay, fine, maybe I did. But seriously, wouldn't Fabray be a better tutor choice? With the flawless academic standing and all that shit."

The older man shook his head, ignoring her word choice. "With all the responsibilities she's handling – Chastity Club, Glee Club, Cheerios – she's got too much on her plate. She can only take one tutee. It can't be Finn, since they're…well, you know. And I put Brittany with you since she needs all the help she can get, and you're the best at the language."

Santana groaned internally. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do: punch Schuester, slap herself? "Fine," she finally mumbled grudgingly. "How exactly does this work?"

Looking relieved, he explained quickly. "Most of Finn's afternoons are pretty full, with Glee club and football practice, and he's only free on Wednesdays and Fridays. You don't need to spend too much time with him, one hour tops." He waited for Santana to grunt in acknowledgement. "Brittany doesn't have any other thing to go to other than Glee club, but I'd feel more comfortable if you were teaching her in my apartment. I'll give you the direc–"

Seeing a last opportunity for escape, Santana rushed out, "Wait a minute. Why don't you do it? I mean, you live with her, right? It'll be easier for all people involved if you taught her yourself. Plus, she'd probably get it more, seeing as you're a teacher and shi – all."

"I did think about that." Schuester admitted. Santana felt something that she could only identify as hope spring in her chest. "But…" The feeling instantly plummeted down like a bird shot with a stone. "I don't think it would be good for Brittany to be around me all the time. It would help her… to be around other people." He cleared his throat uneasily. "Anyway. Here's the address." He began to jot down on one of the edges of the sheets of paper, before ripping it off unevenly and handing it her.

Santana tried to ignore the way she could feel Puck's stare burning holes into the back of her head. She sighed wearily in unwilling acceptance, cursing the whole damn world in her mind. "Fine." She reached out and took the slip of paper, folding it in half and thrusting it into her back pocket. Turning to Puck and ignoring Schuester when he opened his mouth to say whatever the hell it was he was going to say, she barked out, "Let's get the hell out of here. We need to start the fucking weekend early."

Puck grinned, tossing his head towards the exit. "I was hoping you were gonna say that." They both headed towards it immediately, without a backward glance at the Spanish teacher. As soon as they were out of sight, Puck reached into the back pocket of his worn denims and pulled out a rectangular plastic card. He waved it in the air like a magic wand. "I brought my fake ID."

* * *

><p>The bouncer at bar they're at – it's called Dare, and it's one they learned to frequent the previous year – didn't even bother to check Puck's ID. All he did was roll his eyes at him, and nod stiffly at Santana when she walked in. She nodded back, the motion driven by the force of habit more than any inclination to be polite.<p>

When they took the last stools by the bar, Karl, the bartender, barely even glanced at them before setting down a couple of beers before them. Puck took his immediately and lifted it to his lips, downing much of the amber liquid in one huge gulp.

"So," he began, setting the half-empty glass down. He turned to Santana, smirking. "Did you seriously join the fucking glee club?"

Santana scowled, taking a small sip. "Only as punishment, stupid. It was Schuester's singing subordinates or suspension."

He snorted, shaking his head, consuming the rest of the beverage in a single swallow. Tapping the bar to let the Karl know he was out, he turned to look at Santana fully. "What's wrong with suspension? That's like, free days, Lopez."

Santana rolled her eyes, drinking steadily for a few seconds, until she emptied her glass as well. "Sure, sure. How would you tell your mother you were being suspended for violence on campus?"

Puck shrugged, while Karl re-filled their glasses wordlessly. "I wouldn't." He winked at her mischievously. Turning around, he swept his gaze over the dimly-lit room. Nudging her arm clumsily, he grinned, "Be my bro for a sec and help me scout the potential hotties."

Santana sighed, shaking her head minutely. Drinking always brought out the douche in Puck. Swinging her stool around, she began to look, feeling like a predator on the prowl.

* * *

><p>It was a couple of hours later, when Puck got into a fight.<p>

It was typical, to say the least. Whenever Puck would put on "the moves" and hit on some chick, three out of five times said girl just happened to have a boyfriend already. But Puck, stubborn in inebriation, would start trash talking the dude. It almost always led to a fight.

Tonight, though, it was different, when Puck hit on a girl… with a girlfriend.

"Watcha say, babes?" He slurred unattractively.

Santana raised her eyebrows from her seat, watching the girls exchange disgusted looks. She had stopped drinking almost an hour ago, knowing that if she had any more alcohol she would slip into a weepy, hysterical mess – and that wasn't someone she liked to be very often.

"Three ain't that much of a crowd." Puck continued, oblivious to their expressions.

"You should seriously walk away." One of them – Asian, Santana noticed to herself – said stiffly. Her girlfriend, a blonde with a buzz cut, cracked her knuckles threateningly.

"Awww, don't be that way." Puck said, leaning forward on their table. Santana began to wonder if it was time to pull him away. It probably was, but sometimes it was nice, seeing Puck get what he deserved. "I'm good at what I do. I'll make it good for you, I pro–"

The sharp sound of the blonde's palm connecting with Puck's cheek made everyone turn to look. Santana bit back a mean howl of laughter and jumped off her stool, swinging a strap of her bag over her shoulder. She was prepared to heave Puck out of the bar.

"That's enough, you fucking loser," she said, grabbing the back of Puck's jacket and tugging. He resisted, pulling away roughly. But when he did, he lost his balance and toppled unto the table, throwing his hands out in an attempt to grab into anything steady, and cupping the Asian girl's breasts by accident.

"Shit," Santana muttered to herself when the face of the blonde with a buzz cut turned thunderous. Before anyone could even yell _bar fight_, a fist shot out and met loudly with Puck's nose. His body snapped back awkwardly, falling gracelessly to the ground. "I got it," she called out loudly, glancing sharply at the bar's bouncer, who had taken several steps closer.

"Fuck," Puck groaned, cupping his face to staunch the bleeding. Santana grabbed his arm and pulled forcefully, until he was on his feet. She began to half-drag him towards the door, yelling, "Put it on my tab, Karl!"

When they finally got outside, the rain was pounding down relentlessly. Santana shoved him roughly as she got wet, snapping, "You ass!"

Puck pressed his sleeve to his bleeding nose, scowling. Raising his voice over the rain, he retorted, "I could have taken that bitch down, S, if you didn't hold me back."

Santana scoffed mockingly. "You wish."

"I'm serious!" He snapped drunkenly, taking his arm away from his face, allowing the blood to flow freely from his nose. It began to mix with the rainwater pouring down on him, making multiple paths of red slide down his jaw. Ignoring the disgust Santana could feel on her face, he continued hotly, "I don't _hit women_, that's all."

Santana threw back her head and laughed, even if there the movement caused an odd twisting in her gut that made her feel like throwing up. "Yeah, right. And why's that?"

He shrugged in a totally blasé attitude, which was impressive considering the stumbling he was doing on the sidewalk. He raised his sleeve back to his nose, pressing delicately. "'Cause I'm sexist."

He veered dangerously to his left, splashing water all around him, and Santana grabbed his arm to keep him steady. While she began to pull him towards his car, he suddenly said in a mournfully low voice smothered both by the material of his sleeve and the sound of the rain, "S, did I ever tell you about my dad?"

_Fuck, not the dad story again._ "Yes," Santana said loudly, knowing that her response wouldn't deter Puck from launching into the tale, anyway. It was standard operating procedure by now, and Santana was more than used to it: whenever he got drunk like this, he would go off and hit on a girl, get rejected, then start on the story.

"He was my fuckin' hero," He started dejectedly, staring up into the dark, raining sky. Santana bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to mouth the words along with him. "He was the biggest badass in freakin' Ohio, man. He was the coolest guy ever." She pulled him to his parked car, reaching into his pockets and pulling out the keys. She was under the influence, sure, but she was sure as hell much more sober than her slurring companion. "He was everything a dude needs to be a dude." Santana threw open the passenger door and pushed him in, until he took the hint and clambered into the vehicle wearily, getting everything around him wet. "He could have had it all, S." Santana shut the door and walked over to the driver's side, wrenching the door open. "But he lost it all. Y'know why? Y'know what happened?"

Santana fought the urge to nod, instead focusing on thrusting the key into the ignition and starting the car. "Do tell." She muttered in faux enthusiasm, while maneuvering the car to pull off the street. It took her the greatest amount of self-control not to cut him off in his drunken ramblings. It made her ears bleed to hear the same damn story all the time, yeah, but this was _Puck_, with all the layers peeled back, his vulnerability flashing brightly like neon lights.

He was silent for a long moment. Santana waited; she knew this part of the story better than the rest. "He knocked someone up." He turned to her, the small amount of light making his bloodshot eyes look beady. Santana ignored the way the look made her skin crawl. "Y'know who?"

She sighed internally, glancing at him sideways. "Nope." She replied, humoring him.

"My mom." Puck broke into a short, bitter laugh. He always managed to sound sober for this part, like the memory of it was enough to rouse him from drunkhood. "He fucking knocked up my mom."

_Then he had you,_ Santana thought. There was a pause when Puck dropped his arm from his face; his nose had stopped bleeding. When he continued, his voice was subdued. "He didn't know what to do." _You mean, he didn't know what to do with you._ "He stayed 'till I was six, y'know? I wanted to be just like him." He snorted, dropping his head against the window, watching the rain slide against the glass. "But he's gone. He's fuckin' gone."

She waited a couple of seconds, expectant. This was usually the part when Puck fell asleep like a log.

Tonight, though, it was going to be very different.

"Did we really kill someone?"


	15. All The Right Moves

Oh my God, I know. I'm taking longer than is reasonable. If you're still there – and I do hope you are – I'm so sorry. I've been so busy. I haven't even been able to keep updated with the most recent Glee episodes (three of them, if we're being specific), though I have kept updated with the music (I'm obsessed with the music from Saturday Night Glee-ver – seriously, it's been on replay for so, so long now – and Shake It Out is beyond beautiful).

But whatever. For once, I have really, really good news to share. It's amazing, and bizarre, and _I seriously have no idea how the hell it happened_, and I only found out last week.

Who wants to guess what it is?

* * *

><p><strong>All The Right Moves<strong>

* * *

><p>Brittany lied. It wasn't really a long walk.<p>

Then again, maybe it was. She couldn't really tell. With her head bent, her eyes focused solely on the ground beneath the repetitive movement of one foot in front of the other, it was entirely too easy to forget about irrelevant things like distance.

Especially when her consciousness was flooding with words spoken in Santana's raspy voice, her vision clouding over with the image of her desperately dark and brooding eyes.

Brittany wasn't entirely sure what to make of the conversation. Something about talking to Santana made her feel... well, not entirely better, but different. She didn't feel so wildly emotional, like she predicted she would. In fact, she felt almost unreasonably calm, though she honestly wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Well, whichever it was. At least she and Santana were doing a lot better at interacting, compared to all their encounters from the previous weeks put together.

She paused abruptly, surprised by her own thoughts. It only really hit her then, how much talking to Santana actually meant. She felt unsure all of a sudden, wondering how much that brief moment in the choir room was bound changed all the rules of the push-and-pull routine they kept up with each other.

Were they friends now? Acquaintances? Would they be able to look each other in the eye whenever they passed each other in the hallways? Or was everything going to stay exactly same?

Brittany chewed her bottom lip in quiet contemplation, finally moving forward again. She could just wait for Monday to see how things were going to turn out. It would so much easier, so much simpler, to observe Santana's behavior in school then react accordingly, playing along with whatever came her way, but…

Brittany wasn't entirely certain, but something about the way Santana behaved in the choir room made her feel like she alone held all the cards. After all, she initiated the conversation, didn't she? Santana didn't need to stay. She could have just stood up and walked out of the room, blown Brittany off with that attitude she liked to show she had. There was nothing that would have tied her down to the choir room, but she stayed and talked anyway, just because Brittany wanted to.

Brittany examined their conversation in her mind, going through each millisecond of the memory. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for. Something that would confirm the thought, maybe? She didn't know. But could it even be possible? Was Santana really giving Brittany room to steer their odd interaction to wherever she pleased?

_I could stay away,_ Santana's voice reverberated like an echo in her ears, strangely soft and loud at once. _I could stay away_. _**If you want me to.**_

Brittany felt her jaw turning slack. She didn't know how she could tell, but she knew Santana had meant it. Maybe even Santana herself didn't realize. It was seriously intriguing, but mostly just undeniable: despite all her dominantly aggressive bitch-tude in school, Santana seemed to be… kinda nice to her. Accomodating, even.

Brittany sighed as she approached the apartment complex. Now that she it seemed to be true, more or less, than Santana would adapt to whatever Brittany decided to do, she felt even more confused about what was supposed to happen next.

Because the fact still remained that Santana was there during the night of the… _incident_. Brittany swallowed thickly, a lump growing in her throat. Santana was there that night, and she had thrown them out of a two-storey window like a crazy person. She was there, and she was the reason Brittany was here, now, walking to an apartment that wasn't hers, wasn't home, wouldn't ever be. So, Santana was nice, sure, but–

_It's still her fault,_ Brittany thought to herself, sudden anger settling into her veins as she thrust the key into the doorknob roughly. _It's still her fault I'm alive._

The door swung open quickly with her hard shove. It almost hit her on the swing back, but she stepped out of the way easily. It shut behind her with a loud slam, making the person sitting on the couch jump slightly.

"Brittany!" Emma squeaked in surprise. She was polishing the table before her, pamphlets stacked neatly in a box by her side. "Hi!"

Brittany stared for a moment, trying to rearrange her face into a pleasant expression, but the stricken look on Emma's told her she was doing a horrible job. Giving up, Brittany bit back a sigh and replied, "Hello."

Emma folded the cloth carefully and set it at a corner of the table. "Are you alright?"

"I'm okay." Brittany shrugged noncommittally, dropping her bag by the couch. Emma's eyebrows furrowed slightly, trying to catch the blonde's gaze.

"Are you sure?" Emma asked gently, obviously concerned. She glanced down at her pamphlets quickly, like she was making sure they were still there. "If something's bothering you, you can talk to me about it."

Brittany looked away. She opened her mouth to say something like, _Thanks, but I'm alright_ – but the words that fell off her tongue were considerably different. "What would you do if someone saved your life even if you didn't want them to?"

There was a long beat of silence, extending towards eternity. Brittany felt her eyes widening on their own accord, her throat drying, her palms turning slick with sweat – and all the while a high pitched voice in her head kept screaming, _did you seriously just say that?_

Brittany finally glanced at Emma. The guidance counselor was watching her with enlarged eyes. "Brittany, where is this coming from?"

The blonde shrugged again, trying to make the action as casual as possible. "I – uh, it's just…" She swallowed nervously. She shrugged another time. "You know, theoretical question." She inhaled slowly, trying to calm her racing heart. "Just curious."

Emma stared at her for another disconcerting period, during which Brittany wished nothing more than to melt into a puddle of bones and blood on the spotless floor. Then the older woman opened her mouth and said very slowly, "I can't tell you what I would do about something like that, Brittany, because I've never been in such a...uh, _unique_ situation."

The words lingered in the air, trying and failing to enter Brittany's mind. She could hear the words perfectly fine, but she couldn't seem to squeeze them past her ears and into her brain, like they were too big, somehow. She exhaled the air she didn't realize she was holding in, as though ridding herself of oxygen would provide the space necessary to absorb in Emma's sentence.

When the words felt a little less foreign and a little more familiar, Brittany began to realize she was nodding numbly. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. Alright."

She was about to walk politely out of the room and into her bedroom, filled with the intent to forget the whole thing had ever happened, but Emma's voice called her back softly. "Maybe the person only believed they were doing the right thing."

Brittany paused mid-step, and whipped her head around to look back at the guidance counselor. She had a tentative smile on her face, her eyes hopeful. The blonde swallowed. She wasn't entirely sure why she was going to ask, but there was an almost painful yearning in her to hear an older person's opinion. "You think so?"

The dark-haired woman sat up straighter, making a thoughtful sound. "I think it's a possibility." She blinked once, inhaling deeply. She bit her lip in contemplation, then sighed, the sound almost weary. "But you know, Brittany…maybe it would be best to ask that person why they did it."

For the second time within ten minutes, Brittany's tongue made the decision to speak without consulting her brain. "I already have."

There was a pause while Emma tensed almost imperceptibly. "Oh, really? Well, then. Did you get the answer you were looking for?"

Brittany thought back, recalling Santana's barely audible mumbles. _I just. I needed to. _"Kind of."

Emma opened her mouth, whatever words she was about to say already forming over her tongue. Brittany braced for the inevitable onslaught of questions – _what's going on? who exactly are you talking about? why didn't you tell us about this?_ – but before Emma could ask, or before Brittany could plot escapes, the lock on the front door opened with a click.

William walked through the front door, humming a tune with the most eager expression Brittany had ever seen on anyone's face. "I have the most incredible plan for Sectionals." He announced, beaming. He looked over at the two, oblivious to the tense atmosphere. "How was your day?"

Neither said anything for split second. Brittany glanced at Emma, who still looked as though she was planning a thorough interrogation. Thinking quickly, the blonde blurted out, "It was awesome. Glee club is awesome." William's smile – if possible – got even wider.

"I'm glad you think so." He walked over to the couch and plopped himself down beside Emma. "The kids love you. You're a great addition to this club, Brittany."

Brittany nodded absently. "Thanks." Her gaze moved from William's enthusiastic expression to Emma's barely concealed growing concern. This was not a combination she wanted to be around. "Well," she said, rather lamely, "I was thinking for going on a walk."

William looked faintly surprised. Before he could comment, Emma instructed, "Better bring an umbrella. The weather forecast predicted heavy rains." She stood up and gestured for Brittany to follow her while she fetched a long, black umbrella. Handing it over, she asked in a considerably softer tone, "Will you be back before dinner?"

The blonde swallowed, taking the umbrella in her hands. _No,_ she thought. "I think so."

Emma nodded, as though she had expected her reply. Breathing deeply, the guidance counselor murmured, "I won't mention anything to Will." Brittany nodded, trying to hide her relief. She turned away, ready to sprint out of the room, but Emma's fingers closed over her wrist. "But I do want you to remember that you can talk to me. If you ever need to."

Brittany looked back, fighting the urge to pull away from the older woman's grasp. Swallowing, she nodded once. Satisfied, Emma released her grip slowly.

"I hope to see you for dinner."

* * *

><p>Brittany dug her shoe into the soil, watching the design of her sole mark deeply into the ground with every press of her foot. The Lima skies were gradually getting dark, the clouds above her growing dimmer with each passing second. With her eyes on the ground Brittany couldn't see the shifting hues of blue, but in the peaceful quiet, she could almost feel the changing world around her.<p>

Maybe it was just in tune to the changing world inside herself.

All things considered, it was probably a bad idea to go to an empty park. Seated on the edge of an old swing in the expanding darkness, the entire scenario was a plotline straight out of a crime fiction writer's overactive imagination. But Brittany didn't feel compelled to leave, no matter how late it might have been getting, or how cold she might have been feeling. None of that really mattered anyway.

Brittany pushed back slowly on the swing, before straightening her legs and swinging forward slightly. She repeated the pattern, until she was gliding through the air smoothly, her hair flying in the wind. She began to smile at the sensation just as her eyes began to fill with tears, her mind speeding backwards in time.

Swings always reminded her of Natalie.

It was an association she didn't think she was ever going to lose. Swings made her remember her little sister's bright, happy laugh; made her remember the sight of that precious, little body breaking through the air and rising up into the heavens.

Brittany was always secretly afraid that her sister was going to fall. She was always afraid, but she never said so, because she knew her worry would do nothing but worry Natalie, too. So instead, she would stand by the sidelines, as close as she could, ready to catch her little sister if anything happened.

But nothing ever did. Natalie always knew how far to go, how hard to kick, without ever coming close to straddling the line of danger. She was always a smart little girl – much smarter, Brittany felt, than she was at that age. She was so smart, and so good, and so brave, and she had such amazing thoughts and feelings and dreams.

Knowing she would never see any of them come true was probably the worst mental torture in the entire universe, and Brittany choked back a sob. The tears were unstoppable, but then again, so were the memories. It was the most startlingly sharp contrast in the world: to smile so much from recalling _that time_, and _this time_, and _that time, too_…but simultaneously, to cry so much from grasping, over and over, how much had vanished, how much had been lost, how much had been taken away.

Brittany didn't even notice when it began to rain. The raindrops on her face felt so much like her own tears that it wasn't easy to distinguish them from one another. She wrenched herself to a stop, and groped blindly for the umbrella Emma insisted she take. Some rebellious part of her was snapping to her, _to hell with it, just get yourself wet in the rain, what does it matter?_ But a reproachful part was murmuring softly, _no, don't, Emma would be so disappointed._

She slid the umbrella open.

The urge to stay was gnawing at her, but the reality that she needed to leave was soothing that itch over. She stood up and began to make her way back to the apartment complex, keeping her eyes low on the ground and her mind in her own misery.

She was walking around a corner when the rain began to fall more heavily, her footsteps falling over the puddles of water accumulating on the dips and crevices of the uneven sidewalk. For a long time she could hear nothing but the sound of the spray plummeting on the ground and the howl of the wind around her.

She was about to cross the street when she heard a car approaching, moving moderately quickly through the rain. Although it wasn't too close yet, Brittany stopped to let it go ahead. On the opposite lane travelling on the reverse direction another car was advancing, moving at faster – and yet steady – speed.

It all happened so quickly that Brittany would have missed it if she blinked.

The car on the opposite lane screeched abruptly, like the driver had come to a much-too-sudden stop. It veered dangerously into the other lane, almost ramming directly into the other car, which had began to honk loudly in panic. Brittany could have sworn it was going to happen – but the car on the opposite lane suddenly managed to swing the vehicle back into the proper lane, coming to a full stop.

The car that had almost gotten hit drove off quickly as soon as the disaster became evidently averted. Brittany let out a breath she didn't notice she held in, relief filling into her body. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, making up for all the skipped beats during the almost-accident. As she calmed, she stared at the car positioned idly on the road, wondering if the driver inside was alright. She had just made up her mind to walk over and check if anything was wrong, when the door the driver's seat was abruptly wrenched open, and a small, dark figure leapt into the rain, slamming the door closed ferociously.

The door to the passenger's seat opened as well, and another figure stepped out into the downpour. It was difficult to make out faces in the rain, but Brittany guessed this one was a boy, judging from the stature of his body, and the hairstyle that was clearly a Mohawk on his –

_Oh._

* * *

><p>Brittany felt frozen, watching the scene unfold in front of her. She could tell Puck was yelling something at the figure walking in the rain, but she couldn't understand any of the words. The figure just continued to stubbornly walk away, refusing to look back. She – Brittany felt strongly that this figure was a <em>she<em>, and that she knew exactly _who_ this she was – was getting soaked in the spray.

Puck eventually stopped calling and went back into the car. Seconds later the engine roared to life, and the vehicle sped away. Only then did the figure slow down, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure Puck was leaving.

Brittany, still unnoticed, got a full view of her face then – and she was right. She did know who it was.

Santana sighed. Brittany could tell because the breath leaving her body created a mist that lingered in the air, slowly twisting and turning before vanishing completely. Santana stood motionless for a long moment, shivering in the middle of the road and in the middle of the rain.

Brittany wasn't sure what made her do it. Before she could think it through, her feet were moving cautiously towards the other girl, while her mouth was calling out, "Santana?"

The girl in question whipped around, moving so quickly she almost slipped. Brittany reached out with her free hand and grasped Santana's arm to balance her, her grip tight and stable.

"Fuck," Santana cursed, shaking. The expression on her face reminded Brittany of some lost and frightened animal.

"Hello, Santana." Brittany said carefully. The smaller girl exhaled forcefully, and Brittany almost immediately recognized the smell of alcohol on her breath. The almost-accident suddenly made a lot more sense to her.

"Brittany? What are you…" Santana looked around them, as if remembering where she was exactly. She said nothing for a moment, then, "Seriously?" She looked up at the sky. "Are you fucking serious?"

Confused, Brittany let go of her arm. The loss of contact made Santana refocus her attention back on her, granting Brittany full access to the unsettling lost look in her eyes. It felt like a dark vacuum, stretching on for miles and miles.

"Are you alright?" The words slipped out unnoticed, soft and concerned, and somehow audible over the rain.

Santana swallowed visibly, trembling. Brittany looked her over. She was completely soaked, like she had taken a dive into a swimming pool with all her clothes on. Sighing, the blonde stepped closer, so the brunette was under the protection of the umbrella, too. "I'm fine." Santana replied, her voice uneasy. She looked away again. "I'm fine."

Brittany waited, but Santana said nothing more. Brittany looked left and right, but there seemed to be no one else around or miles. Regardless, she began to pull Santana to the direction of the sidewalk, where they were less likely to get hurt in some freak accident.

When they were standing out of harm's way, Brittany decided to go for the tough question. "Were you drunk driving?"

Santana's expression shifted quickly to something Brittany couldn't immediately identify, before fading back into neutrality. "No. I'm not drunk."

Brittany felt herself raise an eyebrow in disbelief. Slowly, she pointed out, "Santana, you almost got into an accident."

Something flashed in Santana's eyes, and she suddenly snapped. "I'm not motherfucking drunk, alright?"

Brittany stepped back, bewildered. Sure, the Santana she'd somehow gotten familiar with had seriously fast and weird mood swings, but this was just bordering on bipolar. Maybe even psychotic. Did alcohol make her like this?

"Santana," Brittany began delicately, "you could have seriously hurt yourself."

Santana shook her head, a ghost of a sneer on her face. "Yeah, well, I didn't, did I?"

Brittany felt irritation bubbling inside her involuntarily. This Santana definitely didn't seem to be the same Santana she'd spoken to earlier that afternoon. "Well," Brittany countered, "you could have seriously hurt someone else."

An ugly look descended on Santana's face. Before Brittany could take back her words or explain them further, Santana said coolly, "Because hurting people is the only thing I can do, right?"

Brittany watched on in stunned silence when Santana turned around and stomped back into the rain. Before Brittany could decide to follow her or move away, Santana was suddenly walking back.

"I'm sorry." She choked, her voice low and trembling. With the cold or with emotion, Brittany couldn't tell. "I'm so sorry, Brittany. I'm so sorry."

Brittany stared at the agonized look in Santana's eyes. She was getting the impression that there was a bigger picture she wasn't seeing yet, but she nodded slowly anyway. "It's okay."

Santana stood still for a moment, before turning away again. Before she could move, Brittany reached out and grasped her arm. "Where do you live?"

The smaller girl shook her head and tried to pry her arm away, but Brittany's grip was firm. "You've been drinking." Brittany reasoned. "You almost got into an accident. You can't go walking alone in the rain right now. Look, just…" She couldn't believe she was saying this. "Just let me help you."

Santana shook her head. "No, I can't…I can't let you help me."

Feeling slightly annoyed and just a tiny bit wounded, Brittany huffed. "Why the hell not?"

"I don't deserve your help."

Growing even more frustrated beyond belief, Brittany tightened her grip on Santana slightly. "Yeah, well, I'm going to help you anyway." She informed the smaller girl firmly, "because it's the right thing to do."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Brittany suddenly recalled her conversation with Emma. _Maybe the person only believed they were doing the right thing._

Brittany's blue eyes widened, momentarily lost as they stared into Santana's brown ones. When she finally snapped out of the memory, she realized Santana looked determined to be stubborn. Breathing deeply, Brittany said clearly, "Look. I'm not going to let you go anywhere without this umbrella. So I can either take you to Mr. Schuester's place with me or take you home. If you don't want me around, that's alright. But you've got to take the umbrella."

Brittany could see the resolve crumbling in Santana's eyes. The smaller girl sighed deeply, looking away momentarily. When she looked back, there was only resignation on her face.

"Lima Heights Adjacent."


	16. Idling

It's finally here! It's finally here! It's been more than a year, but it's finally here! Thank you to everyone who continued to read this, and reminded me to update. This confused/confusing, hysterical/dramatic, super-late update is for YOU. (I apologize in advance. I know I need to grow back into these character's voices.)

Also, I need a beta (actually, four). I'm writing four Brittana stories right now—Hide&Seek (AU), In My Bones (AU), Eight Minutes (AU), The Wonder and the Universong (canon-compliant)—and I might need help keeping track of each one separately. Anyone who's interested can PM me (please indicate which story you'd like to beta for—I should probably warn you, though, I am a difficult person to work with). I'd really appreciate the help and I will definitely credit you.

* * *

><p><strong>Idling<strong>

"_The wasted years, the wasted youth, the pretty lies, the ugly truth."  
>Teen Idle, Marina and the Diamonds <em>

"Did we really kill someone?"

Santana felt her entire body tense, her fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly it felt like her knuckles were going to pop out of her skin. In her shock, she jerked in her seat and swerved out of the lane momentarily, almost colliding with an incoming car. The other driver began to honk urgently, making her turn back into the proper lane sharply, coming to an abrupt halt.

"Fuck, Puck!" she snapped through her gritted teeth, slamming a palm unto the steering wheel. Pain spread from the point of impact immediately, radiating outwards like waves. Her head was swarming, but with adrenaline or alcohol, she couldn't tell. "Couldn't you have picked a fucking better time to ask me something like that? Fuck!"

Puck blinked, looking extremely sober for someone who was so plastered a few minutes previous. "Santana," He swallowed, "I didn't mean to, I just… Look, never mind. Forget I asked anything."

Santana exhaled slowly, trying to breathe through her pounding head and calm her pounding heart. Closing her eyes, she reversed and inhaled shakily. She couldn't believe they were having this conversation, when its subject matter happened to be the one thing she was trying so hard to avoid. Without looking at Puck, she asked in a tight voice, "Why now, Puck? You were doing so fucking well, pretending it never happened."

His sulky tone prompted her to imagine his face transforming into an ugly scowl. "That's not fair. You know what Jesse's capable of–-"

"To hell with Jesse!" Santana yelled, her eyes flashing as she swung her body to face him. "You all act like Jesse's some kind of Hitler reincarnate. Well, guess what, asshole? That makes you a fucking Nazi."

If he was scowling then, now he looked murderous. "That was fucking low, Lopez. My grandparents were in Auschwitz. "

The regret was so tangible Santana could feel it in her throat, tight and suffocating. The words were unbearable to say, but they were ringing in her ears, getting louder and louder, like they were screaming to be said out loud. Gritting her teeth, she finally growled out, "It wasn't just one person." He didn't reply, but she could hear the harsh pant of his breath as he listened. "There were two, okay?" She had an overwhelming urge to strike the steering wheel, or slap his face, or punch herself. "There was a _child_—" Her voice broke, and for a moment she remembered the cold, frail body in her arms, but she shook her head to clear away the memory, "—and there was a woman, Puck, a fucking _mother_—" She turned to face him, seething. "So yes, Puckerman. People died that night. Lives were ruined that night. You know what that makes us? Murderers, Puck. Fucking murderers."

"No, don't say that. It was just an accident, right? We didn't, like, plan to do it or whatever. Jesse says it's not that bad. He says that it doesn't matter anyway. I mean…wait, Santana, c'mon—"

She shook her head in disgust, grabbing her bag. Drunk or not, this was not a Puck she wanted to be around. "I'll walk."

* * *

><p>She could hear him yelling for her to stop. The rain was loud, but he shouted over it, telling her to stop, to come back, to get in the car. She swung her bag over her shoulders and kept walking. He even yelled an apology—but Santana didn't want to hear it, even as she began to shiver from the rain. Puck was her friend—her only friend—but this was just too fucked up. He would always listen to Jesse, and that wasn't something Santana wanted to be around. She'd had enough of that stupidity when she was part of it.<p>

Santana heard the door slam closed—then the engine roared to life. She continued trudging through the rain, even as Puck rolled down the window.

"Last chance, Lopez!" She folded her arms and tucked her freezing fingers into her armpits, forcing her feet to trudge through the puddles of water on the ground. She was getting soaked all the way down to her underwear, but the discomfort was worth it. "Santana!"

It didn't take too long after that for Puck to leave, to drive into the night. Santana looked over her shoulder to watch him disappear, exhaling thickly into the rain. That was the kind of guy Puck was—just like that night, running off with Jesse and the rest of the losers when they realized they'd done more damage than they thought they could do. None of them—not even her, she thought bitterly—had ever bothered to figure out that that was the thing about damage: there was always too much of it. Even if that house had been empty, there would have been something that would have gone wrong. Maybe one of them would have died. Maybe one of them should have.

Santana clenched her jaw. It was never going to end, was it? This was just the way her life was going to be forever: standing still like some kind of ghost, caught in the middle of the fucking storm, shaking to her bones, with no escape, no going back, and no one, ever, no one—

"Santana?"

Santana spun around in defensive reflex, forgetting the wet ground and losing her footing, rapidly heading for a face-first landing on the drenched pavement. But the person who called out to her was faster—an arm shot out, fingers grabbing Santana's forearm and keeping her upright.

"Fuck!" Santana cursed. That was the second time this evening that she'd almost hurt herself. She tried not to shake too hard, but it was difficult to stop, even when her heart fucking stuttered when she realized who it was she was with.

"Hello, Santana," Brittany said, almost too softly—the sound of the rain hitting the surface of her umbrella almost drowned her voice out. Santana exhaled in disbelief.

"Brittany? What are you…" No. No way. Not tonight. Not here. Not now. Not after that conversation with…it was _impossible_. "Seriously?" Santana raised her eyes to the sky and stared at the dark clouds, stared at the rain as they fell into her face. "Are you _fucking serious_?"

* * *

><p>The umbrella was completely useless by the time they arrived in LMA. The walk took several blocks, the distance covered in silence—punctuated only by the roar of the rain and their heavy breathing—but it wasn't enough to cover them both. The only way they would have both fit is if they pressed against each other, and there was no way that was going to happen, especially after their tense conversation on the sidewalk—so Santana left herself no choice but to stand between the shade and the downpour. Brittany had made a tiny protest—"we both fit"—but Santana shook her head and said they didn't—but it was fine, since she was already wet, anyway. At least now she was half-warm.<p>

Santana could tell they were both completely thrown off by the turn of events. It was disconcerting—hours ago, she was still trying to follow through with her plan of avoidance-at-all-costs, but now she was taking Brittany to her house. She had never actually taken someone to her house before—Jesse and all the others had just shown up on her doorstep one night, already knowing where she lived without her telling them, or inviting them over. And even if they knew where she lived, she made it clear that her home was off-limits—but here she was.

Why the hell was she digging herself into a deeper hole?

"There," Santana said, nodding towards the great house in the distance. She heard Brittany's quiet gasp from her left, which made her feel strangely embarrassed—strange, since she had felt almost smug when Puck had made a big deal about her house the first time he'd been in it; embarrassed, since Brittany knew one of her secrets now, and there was no taking it back.

"You live there?" Brittany whispered, the question almost completely inaudible—Santana wouldn't have heard it if she wasn't expecting it. They approached the looming estate, slipping through the open gates. Brittany paused for a moment, staring openly. Santana tried to imagine what she was looking at: was she tracing the outline of the massive roof with her eyes, watching the way the chimney lifted to the heavens? Was she trying to look into the second-floor ancient glass windows, finding only eternal darkness and shade? Was she staring at the evenly bricked exterior, sensing the even more elaborate interior landscape?

What was Brittany seeing? What was she thinking?

"It's a big house."

"My grandparents' house," Santana attempted to clarify—or perhaps to evade, she wasn't sure—as she lowered her eyes to the ground. She was relieved when Brittany didn't ask anything more, because she still wasn't sure how much of everything she was willing to tell her. Or maybe it wasn't even about Brittany asking—the threat was in the very idea of what Brittany could ask, since certain questions could make Santana remember things she'd rather forget.

But that was just a stupid contradiction now, wasn't it? Brittany was already at the threshold of her house—that was a combination of two different aspects of Santana's life that weren't ever supposed to come together. Brittany was a reminder of guilt, an overwhelming guilt, and how that guilt was going to step into her home, and become a living, breathing realization of…of what, exactly? The guilt would have been there, anyway, but somehow having Brittany be there too was going to make everything worse. Santana didn't know what to think anymore—everything was chaotic, and magnified, and intertwined.

But she had no choice but to follow through. Brittany was already here, and they were both wet, and the rain wasn't giving any signs of stopping. It would have been cruel to send her away already, and Santana had been cruel enough. Inhaling deeply in a bad attempt to calm herself, she led the way to the footpath that ended at the front door, digging into her pocket for the key.

When she finally had the tiny object in her hands, she faltered again. This was it—she was letting Brittany into her house. There was a meaning to the action that made Santana feel anxious, precisely because it was something that significantly altered the direction of her initial plans. How could she do this? How could she survive this? What the hell was she thinking? Why was she here? Why did she say yes? Why did she agree to go out with Puck tonight? Why did she ever agree to join Jesse's gang? Why did it even matter anymore?

"Santana?"

"Wait." She tried to pretend that wasn't her voice she just heard, weak and subdued. She cleared her throat and tried to be firmer. "I just need a minute." Her pale fingers slid the key into its hole, fumbling as she turned it clockwise. "Just a minute." She pulled the key back and pushed the door open, swinging it open to reveal the darkness.

There was no going back.


End file.
